


Turtle Cove

by polypocket (thejigsawtimess)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Amusement Park, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amusement Parks, Aquariums, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Blow Jobs, Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh Are Best Friends, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Flirting, House Party, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Nobody is Dead, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Party, Phone Sex, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Flirts, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Rollercoasters, Semi-Public Sex, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Teenage Rebellion, Teenagers, Turtles, germaphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 101,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejigsawtimess/pseuds/polypocket
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak has lived in Derry his whole life. Most people living in Derry have, as it happens, lived there for their whole lives. They get a lot of tourists, but nobody sane would ever willingly move to a town like Derry, because Derry is a crap, dead-end, wasteland where dreams come to die.Oh, but it has an amusement park.*Eddie loathes Turtle Cove, his town's gimmicky attraction. He somehow ends up trawling around the park every summer with Bev, but he'd happily never set foot in there again if there were literally anything else to occupy their time. Even the teenagers that work in the park look miserable, worn down by the outdated turtle theme and the hoards of overexcited thrillseekers. The park may have met its match though in the obnoxious, rude, and steadfastly unfunny Richie Tozier, the first Turtle Cove employee to ever put such panache into wearing a dumb turtle cap and coaxing people to shoot a water gun into a clown's mouth. Eddie hates him already.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 102
Kudos: 209





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! She's back at it again with another Reddie fic. This one's an AU, which is a first for me in this fandom! But who doesn't love an AU, and I particularly love interlacing the universes at certain pivotal points, which you might notice if you keep an eye out! Anyway, hope you enjoy the story my loves, as usual I can pretty much guarantee a happy ending, but a hell of a fun ride on the way. Lots of pining, UST, bickering, and miscommunication so that the payoff is worth it ;) Let me know what you think! 
> 
> xxx

Eddie Kaspbrak has lived in Derry his whole life. Most people living in Derry have, as it happens, lived there for their whole lives. They get a lot of tourists, but nobody sane would ever willingly move to a town like Derry, because Derry is a crap, dead-end, wasteland where dreams come to die. 

Oh, but it has an amusement park. 

Bev Marsh, the bane of Eddie’s existence, and his best friend in the world, often remarks that Derry is famous for two things: the serial child-killer from the 80’s that went round dressed as a clown, and Turtle Cove, the least amusing amusement park in America. Bev hates Derry and Turtle Cove as much as Eddie does, obviously, because she’s not a back-town tourist that can laugh and make fun of the ancient rollercoasters with tracks that shake and shudder whenever a cart rolls over them, or the obviously rigged win-a-toy games, or the greasy, deep-fried shit they serve from the food stalls. 

Bev hates a lot of stuff, though. It goes with her general persona, to hate things. She’s short and slight and an utter, unwavering badass. She’s been a heavy smoker since she was twelve, she wears steel-cap work boots and oversized biker jackets with not much underneath them. She teams these outfits with her short crop of blazing red hair, several piercings in her nose, ears, and other places Eddie pretends not to know about.  Eddie is far too uncool to be her friend, but their close bond was forged in kindergarten, when Eddie had been even weedier and snivellier, and Bev had saved him from getting his face smushed in the sandbox by smacking Eric Funnel round the face with a plastic spade. She is just as terrifying to piss off now as she was then, wielding that cherry red kiddie tool with the conviction of a woman hell-bent on delivering vigilante justice. This might be why Eddie is currently in the passenger seat of Bev’s pickup truck, being driven through the sky-blue archway that spells out ‘TURTLE COVE’ in gimmicky, ‘sea foam’ font, and into the parking lot. 

It’s June, blazing hot, and the park has been open a few weeks, so it’s rammed full of cars. Turtle Cove isn’t a particularly big or well-known resort amongst regular, wholesome American families, but it has earned itself a reputation for being, for lack of a better description, ‘wonderfully shit’ amongst ride-loving teens and twenty-somethings in surrounding states. In summer, like right now, kids that have heard legends of the shitness pour into Derry, stoppering up the mid-town traffic in their haste to get to the park and see the gaudy, tacky mess for themselves. Eddie doesn’t get why Bev forces him to join the hoards each year. The horrendous truth of Turtle Cove is burned into the back of both their brains. 

“Ahhh,” Bev calls out, squeezing her truck expertly between two cars parked very close together. “Smell that, Kaspbrak! Funnel cakes and festering vomit. We’re here.” 

Eddie tests out his door, but can’t get it more than a couple of inches open. “Oh no, guess we can’t get out. Let’s just stay here.” 

Bev sends him a withering look, then plucks a pair of Ray-Bans from the cup holder and slides them on. The way they balance on her snub, freckled nose should be cute, but she just looks even more awesome than usual. She turns in her seat, sliding the glass panel in the divider behind them across, and begins fitting her body through the space until she tumbles out into the truck bed. Once there, she gestures for Eddie to follow, and hops out of the truck to the blistering tarmac. Eddie sighs heavily, cursing her, and begins folding himself through after her. 

“I know you hate this place too,” Eddie says crossly as they weave through the rows of cars, so brightly reflecting the glare of the sun that Eddie has to keep his hand clamped over his eyes like a visor. “Why are we here? We could’ve gone to hang out in Ben’s weird panic bunker.” 

“And when the walls caved in and we were buried alive underground on the hottest day of the year, who would have saved us?” Bev asks, knowing precisely which of Eddie's tightly wound paranoia strings to pluck at to win an argument. “Come on, I know you know it sucks, but I’m young and idiotic and bored. I wanna meet new people. Exciting people, that don’t live and breathe fucking Derry. People with tales of the outside world. This is where those people congregate, unfortunately. So this is where we must go.” 

“Why do  _ I  _ have to be forced to meet these people?” Eddie asks, grumbling, but Bev has already joined the queue for the entrance. 

It moves quickly, because full or not, Turtle Cove is still not a popular attraction. It gets as many visitors as it can cope with, but that’s not a lot compared to something like Six Flags, which has a maximum capacity in the tens of thousands. Eddie leans against the chipped metal railing as he bakes slowly in the sun’s relentless glare, listening to half-witted conversations the morons around him are having, about how they’re planning to sever their own arms off (probably) attempting to film themselves on the poorly safety regulated rollercoasters with their phones. 

Bev rolls a cigarette beside him. “So, straight for The Neibolt?” 

“Sure, if you hold a loaded gun to my head.” The bare skin of his hand, until now protected by the sleeve of his windbreaker, accidentally brushes the flaking paint of the railing, and he recoils, pulling away in horror. Bev watches with a smirk as Eddie digs out his bottle of sanitiser and slathers the goop over his germified hand. “Why don’t you take someone who actually enjoys going on these death traps with you?” 

“Why the hell would I do that when I get to drag you on kicking and screaming?” Bev asks, sticking the unlit cigarette behind one heavily studded ear. "My collection of our ride photos that perfectly capture your varying degrees of panicked screaming are bordering on priceless at this point."

They’re almost at the front of the queue now, so Bev reaches into her jacket for her wallet, and Eddie sighs, doing the same. The young boy in the ticket booth looks seconds away from death’s door when they approach. He’s slumped in his seat, his breath fogging up the plexiglass; it’s obvious that he’s cooking in there.

“You alright in there, champ?” she asks. “Maybe ask Mr Turtle if he can dig out a fan for you.” 

The boy snorts derisively. His pit stains are making Eddie want to gag. He’s glad of the separation of the glass. “Fat chance. Management don’t give a fuck about us. That’ll be twenty dollars.”

“Ah, but we are famed Derry residents Beverly Marsh and Edward Kaspbrak,” Bev explains, and they both dutifully hold up their ID’s to the glass. The boy squints at them without leaning forward, not appearing to care much. “I’m sure you’ve heard of us,” Bev says sombrely.

The boy shrugs, waving them through with a look of indifference. “Have a Turtle-licious day.”

“Dear God,” Eddie mutters as he pushes through the turnstile, making Bev snort. “I guess I should be grateful I don’t have to actually pay to endure this shithole,” Eddie allows, though he’s two steps into the park and already feels the weight of the years of terrible memories pummelling onto his shoulders. “One of the many sparkling benefits we receive as Derry locals.”

“Hold up,” a gormless, lank-haired boy says from nearby, breaking away from his group of stoner buddies to approach them, “you guys are, like,  _ from _ here?” 

“Born and raised,” Bev says around her cigarette, flicking her lighter at its end. Eddie has no idea how she can smoke right now; the heat of it must be stifling. “What’s it to ya?” 

“No way!” the guy says, guffawing. “Ace, Buddy, check it out! These guys  _ live _ in Derry, man!” 

The next few minutes are taken up by a tedious forced photo op with these deodorant-phobic assholes. Eddie endures one selfie, grimacing into the lens, and then forces his way out of their huddle to wait while Bev throws up ironic gang signs and lets them poke their fun. She’s grinning when she sidles back over, and Eddie scowls.

“Why d’you let them make fun of us like that?”

“It’s either joke or be joked at in this world, short stack,” Bev replies, slinging an arm around his shoulder and steering him towards the Ring Toss stall. 

*

Bev is, for some reason, determined to win a lame stuffed toy ‘by summer’s end’. It turns out that Bev has a few friends working here doing temporary summer jobs, which shouldn’t be a surprise (Bev is very popular), but still is somehow. Eddie never thinks of this place as an actual business, with job opportunities and real staff, because the whole park is so tawdry and unkempt. It literally hasn’t changed a bit since Eddie can first remember, when he used to come here with his dad before he died. He must have been around four or five the first time, and he remembers the same painted, cracked tarmac paths connecting each ‘land’ back then, the same multi-coloured string bulb lights criss-crossing overhead. He remembers the wonky signposts with the wacky lettering telling you which way the rides are, the anatomically incorrect bared teeth of the grinning turtles painted onto every sign and ride entrance. 

There’s no sign of maintenance, or janitorial staff, or security. He’s never seen a single staff person, aside from the bored, acne-spotted teenagers that man the booths and rides, in the turquoise Turtle Cove polos with those dumb turtle-shaped hats. But he supposes that somewhere, somehow, recruitment ads must be posted in the lead-up to the park’s summer opening, and that kids his own age must see them and respond.  The first person Bev spots that she recognises is a guy working a game stall, one where you aim a water pistol at a clown’s mouth and fill a balloon until it pops. The guy is very tall, his wiry frame making him appear even taller, with a curtain of black hair falling to his chin. He wears the turtle cap backwards, so the stupid flick of a tail sticks out in front of him instead of its dumb grinning face. Eddie is, weirdly, kind of glad he doesn’t have to look at it when Bev calls out to him and immediately begins ragging on him about the hilarious fact that he’s working here for the summer. 

“Marsh, you wound my fragile ego,” the guy jokes, miming being speared in the heart, “spare me your jibes. Shoot a load into a clown’s mouth so I can get paid. Like a true friend.” 

She laughs, sunglasses pushed up to the top of her head so she can bat her lashes. “You gonna give me one of those big stuffed turtles if I play?” 

It might be the heat, but it’s vaguely nauseating to watch Bev flirt with this guy. Eddie breathes out hard through his nose, willing the day to fast forward, a cloud to pass over the sun, or, even better, for a meteor to smash into Derry, obliterating Turtle Cove once and for all, and him along with it. 

“Depends,” the guy says in the background of Eddie’s wishful thoughts, “you gonna get your hot friend to play too?” 

It takes Eddie a moment to realise that this lanky weirdo is referring to him. He lifts his gaze in surprise, feeling his cheeks redden, as they always do, ever since he was a kid, in every fucking mildly embarrassing situation ever. The guy is baring his wonky teeth in an unabashed grin, aimed Eddie’s way, his hands planted on the counter before him, where the water guns are laid out, ready for action. 

“No, thanks.” Eddie’s voice is clipped, he knows, but he’s hot and irritable, in his least favourite place in the whole damn world. This moron with his pity attempt at inclusion is not making him feel any better. 

“Don’t mind him,” Bev says amusedly, “he’s grumpy ‘cause I’m about to drag him on The Neibolt.” 

“No way!” the guy says, and Eddie rolls his eyes. “Impressive, fanny pack. That’s the scariest ride in the whole-”

“I _ know _ ,” Eddie snaps, glaring. “I’ve only lived adjacent to this hell hole my entire life. And yeah, I’ve been on The fucking Neibolt. Twice. And never again, despite what she might say.”

“Wow, jump down my throat why don’t you?” the guy says, then pauses. “That was a genuine invitation, by the way.”

Bev cackles with laughter, and Eddie shoots him a glare. “I’d rather kiss the clown mouth.”

“That’s a double burn, because Eddie here is a wicked germaphobe,” Bev says, nudging Eddie’s rigid stance with her sharp elbow. “Good to see you, Richie,” she says, finally picking up on Eddie’s desire to am-scray. “You look like a demented children’s TV presenter in that outfit.” 

Richie pulls the turtle-head brim of his cap around to the front so that he can tip it towards the two of them, theatrically. “Great to see you too, beautiful Beverly. And  _ scrumptious _ to make your acquaintance, Eds.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, turning round to glare again. “My name is Eddie.”

Richie just winks at him and they wander off, Eddie’s fingers twitching in annoyance. 

*

“Who  _ was _ that guy?” Eddie asks, affronted, as soon as they’re clear of Arcade Avenue, the section of the park where all the fairground games stalls are, the first bit you come to after the entrance, all the booths lining either side of the main pathway so you’ll be coaxed into spending money immediately by the lure of the oversized stuffed toys. “How do you even know him?”

“Richie?” Bev asks, distracted by a display of marine-animal-shaped lollipops on the counter of a candy stand. “He’s in my Advanced Trig class. Oooh, I’ll have a blueberry whale, please.” 

“He goes to our school?” Eddie asks, astounded. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Bev takes the lollipop excitedly, slamming down some crumpled notes onto the counter and walking away before the sloth-like teenager behind it can reach out to count them. “He’s the year above us. They put me in the clever-clogs math classes, remember?”

“So, you’re telling me that  _ that _ guy elected to take Advanced Trigonometry in his Senior year?” 

She shrugs, slurping on the whale’s splayed tail. “He’s crazy smart. One of those freaky calculator brains, y’know? We’d all shout equations at him and he’d just reel them off without even thinking.” 

Eddie blinks, his anger towards Richie’s rude introduction receding a little in the light of this information, like someone’s sprinkled water on the flame. It roars back soon enough however, remembering the little things about that first meeting: Richie calling him ‘fanny pack’, for instance. He fingers his belt bag self-consciously now, eyebrows pinching. 

Bev catches him at it, laughing prettily, the tip of her tongue already tinged blue. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s a tease. That’s his whole thing. But he doesn’t mean it. I think he liked you, actually.” She pauses, sucking contemplatively on the whale. “He’s popular as hell, but he doesn’t like a lot of people. He’s selective about his friends.” 

“Lucky me,” Eddie says dryly.

Bev laughs again, and then they’re stepping over the long-ago toppled archway that announces the entrance to ‘The World of Tomorrow’. It’s basically a lot of chrome, a kids' rocketship ride, and plenty of posters with corny phrases on where cartoon turtles have, inexplicably, sprouted alien antennae. 

“Wanna go on Space Turtle Mountain?” Bev asks, then crunches the whale in half with her neat, white teeth. 

“If we must,” Eddie sighs, and they head for the huge lump of silver rock that’s supposed to be, Eddie guesses, the habitat of whatever a ‘space turtle’ might be. 

From within, periodically, a chorus of screams echoes out; this is, Eddie knows, the result of the launch-pad style beginning of the ride. It had used to terrify him, the lurch forward and subsequent barrel around the track in the pitch darkness inside the ‘mountain’. But as Eddie grew up, he realised that this version of Disneyland’s famous Space Mountain ride is about a quarter of the size and speed of the original, and is, like the rest of Turtle Cove, hugely disappointing. 

The queue for Space Turtle Mountain is, at least, indoors, and because of the thick layer of plaster-rock over their heads, dripping with damp from years of soaking up the stormy Derry winters, it’s lovely and cool. A text arrives on Bev’s phone, and she digs it out of her jacket; for something to do, Eddie pulls out his own. He has four texts from his mother, demanding an update on his safety and sunscreen use, but apart from that, tragically, nothing. Not that he ever gets texts from anyone aside from Bev or his mom anyway.  He’s tapping out a weary reply to the latter when Bev’s tittering catches his attention. 

He clicks send and stuffs his phone in his pocket, frowning at her. “Is that Ben?” 

“No, Richie,” Bev says, flashing him a grin in the darkness. The queue shuffles forwards. “I was right. He did like you.” 

“Hmmph,” is all Eddie can think of to say. 

“He  _ really _ liked you, actually,” Bev says with a little whistle after another text flicks onto her screen. “Says you ‘had him drooling harder than when the cotton candy lady wheels her cart past his booth’.” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose. He’s glad the dark queue tunnel is hiding his red cheeks. He wouldn’t want Bev to get the wrong impression. He always blushes. At everything. “Ew,” he says simply, and steps forwards when the queue moves again. 

He can feel Bev scrutinising him. “He’s kinda pretty though, don’t you think?” 

“If you like greasy, cocky, rude assholes, then sure.” 

It’s a mistake of an answer, but Eddie realises it too late, when Bev has already lit up with glee and begun frantically typing out a reply on her phone. Eddie has to take a deep breath to prevent himself snatching the phone out of her hands. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie demands instead, trying to act cooler than he feels. “You wanna set me up with some dickhead carny with a head for numbers? He’s gross, Bev. No way.”

“Uh huh,” Bev replies, infuriatingly. She smiles at him, then slips her phone back into her pocket. “Loud and clear, Eddie. Ooh, look. If we turn off here we can get to the front!” 

*

At lunchtime, Eddie is so queasy from being hurled around on various unstable rides that he can’t be within two feet of Bev, snaffling her paper cone of sugary churros without a care in the world. They’ve done The World of Tomorrow, Wild West Town, Aqualand, and are now meandering through the most tasteless area of them all: ‘El Mexicana’. 

Because inhaling the deep fried fatty smell of Bev’s calorific lunch is making him want to barf all over the sizzling tarmac, Eddie sticks to the edge of the path. As he’s walking by a gift stall selling sombreros, waterproof ponchos, and various other offensively stereotypical Mexican ‘souvenirs’, a hand reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his jacket, making him shriek. Eddie yanks himself free, heart leapfrogging over itself, and whirls to confront his attacker. 

“Woah, calm down there, S-Señor!” 

Before Eddie can figure out if he recognises the face behind that stuck-on moustache, Bev is barrelling past him, arms thrown wide. “Bill!” she cries, wrapping those arms around the moustached stranger’s neck. Eddie’s shoulders release some of their tension, and he allows his wide eyes to adjust. It is, in fact, Bill Denborough hiding underneath this ridiculous turtle-themed, vaguely Mexican outfit.

“Crap, Bill, you scared the shit out of me,” Eddie says, allowing himself to be pulled into a brief, shoulder-to-shoulder hug once Bev has had her fill. 

“Sorry,” Bill says, laughing. “C-couldn’t resist. You’re an e-easy scare.” 

“Everyone’s trying to piss me off today, apparently,” Eddie says crossly, arms folding over his chest. 

“Doesn’t take much,” Bev says wryly, and Eddie reluctantly jerks his head in agreement. She squints at Bill, chewing a mouthful of churro. “You workin’ here too, compadré?”

“Sure am-m,” Bill says brightly. His chipper demeanour is at odds with the rest of the youths Eddie has seen working here, glued to their phone screens, or glumly staring into the distance, willing the day to end. “I’m saving up t-to go travelling. Headed to Asia for the whole of Aug-gust!”

“Wow,” Bev says, jealously, “need a travelling companion?”

Bill laughs, but there’s a tinge of pink visible on his high cheeks. Eddie averts his eyes, hiding a smirk. It’s no secret that Bill has held a candle for Bev since he met her, back in middle school when he, Eddie and Bev had been grouped together for a whole semester for a History project. Eddie can’t blame him for it, of course, but the moping and wistful sighing got old after a few years; he doesn’t understand why Bill won’t just nut up and ask her out. He’s been meaning to talk to him about it, actually. But then they’d probably start going out, and Eddie would be forced to endure their coupley-ness, and that would absolutely suck. So he might wait a little longer. Just until they graduate. 

“M-maybe,” Bill says, giving Bev a shy smile. “You got any summer plans?”

He’s looking at Bev, of course, but Eddie decides to reply anyway. “Can’t you tell? We’re right in the apex of our dream summer location, trudging round fucking Turtle Cove for the billionth time.” 

“Bitter and despondent,” Bill says approvingly, “vivid description as ever, Eddie.” 

Oh yeah, and Bill’s a nerd for anything literary. 

“I’m planning on hitching to NYC at some point,” Bev offers, sucking sugar off her fingers. “I read online about this dude who’ll sneak you into a Hamilton matinée for twenty bucks.” 

Bill’s eyes keep accidentally zeroing in on the pucker of her lips and then snatching away again to focus on the floor, Eddie’s shoulder, the rows of mini sombrero keychains. It’s all very amusing, and Bev is probably doing it on purpose. 

“Oh,” Bill says, the blush deepening, “c-c-cool.”

“Not as glamorous as Asia, though,” Bev says in a sad sigh, “you’re a brave man, working this shit job to escape another eternal Derry summer.” She salutes him, and Eddie nods in agreement. “I take my hat off to you, hermano.”

“Gracias, Señorita.” Bill grins. “I’m working this booth again tomorrow, if you feel like another visit.” 

“No way,” Eddie mutters, folded arms tightening. 

Bev rolls her eyes. “Eddie’s already found someone to piss him off in the games area.” 

Unexpectedly, Bill lets out a peal of laughter. “Let me guess, Richie Tozier?” 

Eddie turns quickly to face Bill, the knot of his arms loosening. “You know him too?” 

Bev shrugs. “He’s a pretty popular dude amongst the Seniors.” 

“Bill’s not a Senior either,” Eddie points out. 

“Yeah, but I got bumped up to Senior Advanced English ‘cause of that story I got published in the New York Times,” Bill says, mumbling a little with embarrassment. He’d been very quiet about the whole achievement when it had first come out, only showing a few of his close friends - including Eddie and Bev - but the Principal had somehow gotten ahold of the news, and announced it to the entire school in assembly. Bill had been mortified, and, as might be expected for any outcast kid, he was mocked about the story for weeks. Particularly the ending, which Eddie privately thinks was a little weak. “Richie’s in that class too. He’s, like, so smart.” Bill shakes his head, baffled by whatever memories are skidding through his mind. “You’ll be so sure he’s goofing around so much that he’s not even listening to Ms Carter talk, and then she’ll pick on him and he’ll just spew this incredible theory about the text, pulling up names of philosophers and obscure authors I’ve never even heard of. It’s insane. He could teach the class, easy. I’d probably learn just as much.”

“Yeah, but you’d have to put up with an enormous amount of dick jokes inserted between the snippets of wisdom,” Bev says with a trill of laughter. Bill joins in, and Eddie pouts to himself, feeling left out of the joke. “Aw, don’t sulk,” she coos, linking her arm in his. “Just ‘cause he’s clever doesn’t make him less of an asshole.” 

“Very true,” Bill says over his shoulder as he takes a five dollar bill from a girl buying a postcard that reads  _ ‘Hola hermosa tortuga!’ _ . “I don’t kn-know what he said to you, Eddie, b-but as it usually takes him about five minutes to p-piss someone off, I’d guess it took him… twenty seconds for you?” 

“About that,” Eddie replies gruffly. 

“Rich took a shine to Eddie,” Bev informs Bill with a flash of her pearly whites. “Asked me for his number.”

“He what?!” Eddie asks, shrilly. 

“Ahhhh nooo, I’ve got a line forming,” Bill says despondently. He tosses an apologetic look at them both. “Come back tomorrow? I wanna hear how this develops! Best gossip I’ve heard in ages.” 

“It is not gossip! And we’re not coming back!” Eddie cries, but Bev is already dragging him towards the Bucking Turtle ride. 

*

Unfortunately, the only way out of Turtle Cove is back through the entrance, which means that Eddie and Bev are forced to walk back down Arcade Avenue at the end of the day. The heat of the sun is finally wilting, meaning Eddie can breathe easier, but his bad mood still lingers, and now, because Bev had made them go on the log flume last, Eddie’s damp shorts are not drying. 

“Couldn’t keep away, could’ja?” Richie calls out as soon as they’re within feet of his booth. “Knew you were flirtin’ with me, Spagheddie.”

Eddie doesn’t rise to the bait, but he deliberately sets his mouth into a hard line as Bev wanders away from their path to approach him. Eddie huffs, annoyed, but follows her to the booth - she’s his ride home, after all. Richie is sat on the counter, his Turtle Cove t-shirt damp around the neck and pits, his hat still on backwards. He has one of the water guns cocked over his shoulder.

“Fancy a go?” Richie asks, eyes flicking between Eddie and Bev. “Flash me and you get a free turn.” 

Bev doesn’t even blink. She lifts her tank top so quickly that Eddie misses the sight of any skin, although Richie and several passers-by get an eyeful. One boy trips over his own feet in his distraction. 

“Marsh!” Richie exclaims, cackling. “You legend, pick a gun.”

Bev blows him a kiss, strolling over to select a gun from the ones lying on the counter. Richie moves his attention to Eddie, smirking. 

“Don’t even bother asking,” Eddie growls. 

“Shame,” Richie sighs, unashamedly tracking his gaze up and down Eddie’s body. Again, irritatingly, he blushes. “I’d have given you two turns.” 

Scandalised by the audacity of this moron, Eddie finds himself digging into his shorts pocket for the two dollars he’d brought with him and smacking them down onto the counter beside Richie’s Converse. 

“I’ll pay for my turns, thank you.”

Bev slides him a look coupled with a raised eyebrow. She’s holding her chosen gun at eye height, aiming it towards one of the clowns. 

“Damn, Destiny's Child,” Richie says, unfolding his long limbs and hopping off the counter, sliding the notes off after him. He stands in the corner, out of the way, and gestures for Eddie to pick a gun. “Let’s see what you got, then, hot stuff.” 

Eddie is, objectively, not a natural at the game. The guns are unfamiliar to him, and heavier than they look. Aiming them is tricky, particularly for an elongated period of time, directing the stream into the clown mouth without getting distracted. And Richie is  _ very  _ distracting. 

“Imagine you’re aiming your dick into the urinal,” is Richie’s suggestion, making Eddie’s flush deepen. 

“Do you have any advice for dickless people?” Bev asks.

“Imagine you’re... squirting... your boob? I dunno,” Riche suggests, making Bev snort loudly. 

“Do you have to be so vulgar?” Eddie asks through gritted teeth. The red balloon above his clown’s face is straining and full. 

“You love it.” 

“No, really, I don’t- ahh!” The balloon pops, loudly, making Eddie jump backwards, gun still held in front of him like he could use it to defend himself. Richie is laughing at him, one hand on his belly. Bev’s gun ran out before she could fill her clown’s balloon enough to pop it, so she’s grinning at him too. “Fuck,” Eddie says quietly, heart pounding half from fear, half from embarrassment at his reaction. “Was it meant to do that?”

“You just won yourself an oversized plushie turtle, lovingly stitched together by five-year-old sweatshop workers,” Richie informs him with a gracious bow. “Please, select your favourite.”

“What… are you kidding?” Eddie asks, dubiously. “All I did was shoot a stream of water into a clown…” 

“And it loved it so much it blew its load,” Richie says. “Shall I choose your new adopted pet for you, Eds?” He turns, surveying the stuffed turtles swinging by their legs from the ceiling. Eddie stares at the placid turtle’s face on the back of Richie’s cap, too stunned to speak. “Ah,” Richie says, reaching for one, “this one’s perfect. His name is Richie II, and he requires a firm tuck into bed beside you every night.” 

Richie unhooks Richie II from the shelf and passes it over the counter solemnly. Eddie’s still holding the water gun, so he steps forwards and places it back down, flashing a ‘what the fuck’ look at Bev, who is looking on enviously. As Eddie opens his arms to receive the beast - easily as tall as him from head to tail if stood upright - his hand brushes Richie’s. He’s got big, lean hands, Eddie can’t help but notice. 

“Um,” Eddie says, mostly into the toy’s felt skin, “what the fuck am I supposed to do with this thing?”

“Love and cherish it,” Richie says, grinning. “Can I take a pic of you for the Turtle Cove Instagram?” 

“Not a chance in Hell,” Eddie retorts. He shoves the turtle at Bev. “Bev, you’re the clout queen. You can pose.”

“Oooh,” she squeals excitedly. “Hang on, I’ll put my sunglasses on him.”

Eddie hangs back, watching as Bev poses in a variety of funny ways with the giant turtle, slinging her arm around it as if they’re bros, riding on its back, her pale, freckled legs curled up on its enormous shell. Richie is laughing, encouraging her, snapping photo after photo from his vantage point behind the booth. Loads of people stop to watch her, shouting suggestions and laughing along. 

Eddie is amused at first, but then his attention is snagged by Richie (the real Richie), who every so often stops photographing Bev to flick a glance at him. This is weird. When Bev wants to be the centre of attention, she can turn the heads of everyone in a two mile radius, or so it seems. Eddie is more than used to fading into the background beside her; it makes total sense, because Beverly Marsh is a glowing, radiant deity, effortlessly cool and thrumming with charisma. And Eddie is… well. Not those things. He’s achingly average, stiff and preppy. He has a resting bitch face and a tendency to come across as standoffish, he knows. For this reason, of course, Bev is the one people look at. 

But, Richie is looking at Eddie. He’s looking so much that it’s freaking Eddie out, honestly. He wants to ask if there’s a problem, or if Richie’s trying to convey some telepathic message through his second-long glances. And then, the photoshoot ends, Bev tired of performing for her audience. She gives a theatrical bow, then makes Richie II do the same. People actually applaud her, but she ignores them, dragging the turtle back over to Eddie and shoving it at him. 

“Thanks for the ride, Richie II,” she quips, then finger guns the turtle and reaches into her jacket for a cigarette. “You ready to go, winner?” 

Eddie nods, still stuck on Richie’s peculiar behaviour. He turns to study him one last time, and finds, to his chagrin, that Richie is waiting to meet his gaze, a shit-eating grin in place. 

“Have fun cuddling your Richie later,” Richie says, winking. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’m not calling him that.” 

Richie shrugs. “Not up to you, cutie. He told me that name himself.” 

“Okay, okay,” Bev sighs, cigarette tucked behind her ear, “enough flirting. Let’s adios this joint, bud.”

“Miss you already,” Richie calls after them as they head for the exit, turtle balanced atop their heads. 


	2. Chapter 2

On the drive back home Eddie’s quiet, trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to explain the giant turtle to his mom, and how to tell her that he’s spent the day at Turtle Cove without her completely freaking out and accusing him of jeopardising his safety by hurling his fragile body around rollercoaster tracks. 

“You thinkin’ about Richie?” Bev asks, out of the blue, a wry smile on her face. 

Eddie splutters indignantly. “Why the hell would I be thinking about that asshole?” 

“‘Cause he’s into you. It’s impossible to ignore it when a hot person is into you.” 

“Everyone is into you,” Eddie points out, trying to divert the conversation, “and you do just fine ignoring them.” 

“You tellin’ me you’re into me, honey?”

Eddie pulls a face, and she nearly swerves them into a ditch smacking him for it. “Ow- ahhh! Bev, oh my God, watch the road!” 

She laughs heartily, like their near-demise is a hilarious joke, and pulls the truck back into the right lane. “You could really stand to let loose this summer, y’know.” 

“I don’t think a car crash is the best way to do that,” Eddie snaps, heart still thumping. 

They’re turning into his street now, and Eddie’s stomach sinks like it always does. He’s already rehearsing the conversation he’s going to have with his mother, explaining his all-day absence, the pinkness of his nose and cheeks because try as he might, sun cream never quite holds up against his pale, useless skin. Bev pulls up beside his house and switches off the engine with a sigh; her hand places itself on Eddie’s knee. 

“I’m a li’l worried about you,” she confesses, uncharacteristically sincere for once. The sun has dipped low, so she’s taken off her Ray-ban’s. They’ve left little pink grooves either side of her freckled nose. “You used to smile more.”

Eddie fidgets in his seat, fingering the buckle of his seatbelt. “I smile.”

“Yeah,” Bev agrees, “but it’s getting rarer.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I live in shitty town with my mental case mother, I’m too poor to get out and can’t get a job because she’d call in and get me fired if she found out, and the only person I can relate to is my best friend who rags on me about needing to perk up.” Eddie pauses, cheeks hot from irritability. “Not a bunch there to smile about.” 

“At least your best friend is super awesome,” Bev says; the sympathy in her voice is making Eddie’s nausea crawl back up his throat. “Hey, I’ll throw a party!” she declares suddenly, eyes bright with the impulse. “I’ll invite loads of people. You can tell your mom you’re staying at mine. Then you can have a few drinks, play some games. Meet people.” 

“A party?” Eddie asks dubiously. “I dunno if I’m a party person.” 

“So, pretend,” Bev says simply. “That’s all confidence is, Eddie. Pretending until people believe you.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, suddenly weary. His legs ache from trekking around the park all day. “Fine. Let me know when and where.”

She grins. “You bet. Now, get your enormous turtle out of my car.” 

*

It’s eleven o’clock before Eddie is finally permitted to go up to his bedroom and begin getting ready to go to sleep. His mom had been extra difficult with him, accusing him of leaving her alone all day to deal with the unexpected visit of the window cleaners, which had thrown her into a tizzy. 

_“I didn’t have any cash to pay them with, Eddie!”_ she’d wailed while he sat in front of her chair, on the floor, as she always has him do, rubbing her swollen feet and nodding impassively. _“I didn’t know what to do! And you weren’t there so I couldn’t ask you to get me some!”_

 _“I know the guys who clean the windows, ma,”_ Eddie had tried to protest. _“They’re really nice. They always take an IOU if you don’t have the money on you then.”_

“ _But I didn’t_ know _that Eddie!_ ” his mom had cried, face scrunched in anguish. “ _I was in my chair and suddenly a strange man was at the window, oh it was so scary, Eddie bear!”_

_“I’m sure it was, mom.”_

It’s best to just nod along, rather than try to argue. Even so, the horrifying tale of the window cleaners lasted hours, and Eddie is now utterly spent. He flops onto his back on the bed, or, more accurately, onto the hump of Richie II’s shell. The one good thing about his mom being so worked up over her own trauma is that she barely gave a crap about the stuffed toy Eddie had dragged inside with him. Of course, given the shape of the toy, it’s pretty obvious where he’d gotten it, and he’s sure that tomorrow, when his mom sees it in his room, he’ll be in for a lecture about why Turtle Cove is evil and unsafe. Doesn’t really matter though, because he despises the place and would quite happily never set foot in it again. 

His phone buzzes and he digs it out of his shorts pocket to look. 

**Bev  
**wanna hit up TC again tomoz? x

Eddie groans loudly, punching Richie II softly in the side. He supposes that, for Bev, Turtle Cove is a promising hub of young people, some that she knows and likes, and some that she has yet to charm with her magnetism. But dear lord, the park is filthy, and half fallen apart. Surely she can’t really want to go _two days in a row_.

 **Eddie  
**I’d rather boil my balls in acid thanks x

 **Bev  
**i’ll buy you candy…

 **Eddie  
**Sugar rots your teeth. 

**Bev  
**ice cream?

 **Eddie  
**I’m allergic to dairy!!

 **Bev  
**we can flirt with richie again?

 **Eddie  
***vomit emoji*

 **Bev  
** cmon pleeeeeeaaaase?? i’ve got a  
lil bit of a crush on señor bill :-{)

 **Eddie  
**I thought you were into Ben the architect?

 **Bev  
**i thought YOU were my best friend

 **Eddie  
** UggHHGHGHHHH. FINE. But you owe me.  
And I get to punch your dumb friend Richie  
if he pisses me off. 

**Bev  
**sweet! you’d be doing both of us a favour tbh

 **Eddie  
**Any more news about this party?

 **Bev  
**...you didn’t check your FB invites did you?

Eddie frowns, then clicks off the chat to switch on his WiFi. His mom refuses to have a router set up, so he has to hop onto next door’s. The guy who lives there, Stan, is in some of Eddie’s classes at school. They’re not exactly friends, but they’re mutually beneficial acquaintances. Stan gives Eddie his WiFi password in exchange for some help in Math, Physics, and Business Studies. In the classes they have together, they’re never without a partner despite their low rung on the social ladder. They have, in the past, helped each other out of lockers after being stuffed in, smudged each other’s names off the bathroom stall insults, and lent each other everything from protractors to gym socks. 

As his phone struggles to latch on to the Uris’ internet connection through the walls of their houses, Eddie finds himself wondering why exactly he and Stan aren’t better friends. They’ve both lived next door to one another since they were kids. And sure, Eddie’s mom was too paranoid to arrange playdates, but they still saw each other at school. Stan is a little weird, with his birdwatching obsession and quiet manner, but he’s astute, and clever, and thinks long and hard about everything he says in a conversation, which makes him an interesting person to talk to. 

The WiFi connects, and Eddie brushes the thoughts away for now. He opens his Facebook app, and is immediately overwhelmed by the unread notifications. He never checks Facebook, because nobody ever interacts with him there apart from Bev, and he has no desire to keep up with the mundane updates of the lives of his Derry peers. One of the notifications, that isn’t _‘Bev posted a photo’_ or ‘ _Bev invited you to join a group called ‘dogspotting’_ , is an invite to an event called ‘ _bev’s having a party be there or ur a loser_ ’. Eddie clicks it, already feeling pressured. There’s a scant description, telling people to bring booze or they’re not allowed in the door, and apart from that, very little detail. The time is set for nine, which seems alarmingly late to Eddie, who isn’t very good at staying up all night like the rest of his age group seem to be able to do. The location is Bev’s aunt’s house; this intrigues Eddie a lot.

 **Eddie  
**Your aunt’s letting you throw a party? 

**Bev  
** she and annie are going out of town for a  
romantic getaway

 **Eddie  
**You’re not gonna tell them?!

 **Bev  
**my god. you’re eighty-five years old

 **Eddie  
** But I like Fiona and Annie! They’re nice  
people!

 **Bev  
** remember what i said before about  
loosening up

 **Eddie**  
I’m loose enough!!

 **Bev  
** im not gonna trash the place jeez! they  
wont even know ill clear up before they get  
home

 **Eddie  
** I don’t like it. But I guess a party would   
lift the monotony somewhat

 **Bev  
**cool. bring booze

 **Eddie  
**Where the hell am I gonna get booze?

 **Bev  
**sounds like a you problem. see u 2moz x

 **Eddie  
**You’re the worst. Goodnight x

*

The sun is marginally less fierce today as Eddie strolls down Arcade Avenue beside Bev, who is wearing a clear plastic jacket over a camo tank top and shredded black mini shorts. She’s pulling looks again, which seem to glide off her synthetic sleeves. Eddie is wearing almost exactly the same outfit he had yesterday, except the polo shirt is a pale green today. He adjusts his belt bag self-consciously as they reach the clown game stall, but Richie is mysteriously absent. 

“Huh,” Bev says, noticing this as well. “Think your admirer’s pulling a sickie?” 

A different boy is working the stall now, with nowhere near as much panache. He catches Bev and Eddie staring at him and looks quite weirded out. Bev blows the poor boy a kiss, which turns him beetroot. 

“I don’t care,” Eddie says, though for some reason, a twig-snap of disappointment pops in his chest. He shakes it off, annoyed at himself. It was not fun being objectified by a cocky git, even if it did make his skin feel a little skittery when he caught Richie staring. “Let’s go see Bill in Mexico land.” 

“I think you mean El Mexicana, compadre!” Bev says in a terrible Spanish accent. But she walks them there with a quickened pace, nonetheless. 

It’s mid-morning, so Bill is once again rammed with custom, and can barely give them the time of day. He apologises profusely, as if it’s his fault that he’s got a job to perform and can’t slack off to shoot the breeze with them. 

“S-so sorry, guys,” he says again, darting over to them while an irritated mother of two waits, arms folded, kids tantruming either side of her, to be served. “C-come back at l-l-lunchtime, maybe?” Eddie grimaces in sympathy; his stammer gets way worse when he’s stressed. “It’ll be qu-quieter then. Everyone heads t-to the food s-stalls.”

“Sure, no problemo,” Bev tells him reassuringly. She reaches out and gives his arm a squeeze - such an obvious flirtation that Eddie actually snorts. Bev steps on his foot. Bill flushes a cherry blossom shade. “See you for el lunchio.” 

He giggles, giving her a pathetically smitten wave, and turns back to the angry lady. Eddie gives Bev a look that he hopes reads ‘I’m ashamed to be stood next to you’. She sticks her tongue out at him - bright green today, from an octopus-shaped lollipop - and they keep moving. Bev once again takes advantage of Eddie’s ditziness and terrible sense of direction, and they end up in Horrorville, at the very top of the park, where the ‘scary’ rides are. He’d managed to put her off yesterday, but this time she’s filled with new vigour, determinedly marching them towards the sounds of shrill, gleeful screams. Unfortunately for Eddie’s sensitivities, he really does find the rides in this land scary, unlike most of the other guests. 

“Neibolt?” Bev suggests with a wicked grin. 

The sun shimmers off her sunglasses, making Eddie squint. “No!”

“God, you are so boring,” Bev complains. 

And yes, he _knows_ it is a wind up, but the accusation still cuts him deep. She’s pouting too, hand on her hip, scanning the groups of people around them as if searching for a new partner to go on the ride with. Eddie hates himself for falling for all of it, but he can’t bear to even conceive of the idea that Bev might chuck him one day for someone more exciting. Because, realistically, that is exactly what she should do. And living in this hellish town without her to hang around with is the straw that would break Eddie’s fragile back. 

“Ugh, fine,” he cries, throwing his hands up. “I guess, as we are already in the frying pan, I might as well throw myself directly into the fire.” 

Bev hurls her body into his as if she were made of dandelion seeds - she’s not, Eddie almost falls on his ass - and wraps her crinkly arms around his neck. She kisses him soundly on the adams apple, and drags him towards the towering mess of shuddering, gun-metal track that is The Neibolt. 

*

The queue for The Neibolt is, consistently, the longest in the park. It doesn’t seem to matter what time of day you try and aim for it, there’ll always be a teeming tail of excitable thrillseekers waiting for you to join the end. As the only decently scary ride in the entire park, it’s the one people beeline for. He and Bev dutifully toddle up to the very back of the queue, which extends right up to the entrance archway, where the skeleton of a turtle bares its fangs at them both from an overhead sign, its red eyes glittering in the sun. Bev immediately strikes up a conversation with a couple in front of them, a girl with a lot of Disney-themed tattoos up and down her legs, and a boy wearing a ‘Pickle Rick’ t-shirt. It honestly astounds Eddie how Bev can chat with anyone, and somehow draw out the most interesting parts of them, despite how little they have in common. 

Eddie stands to the side and plays a math game on his phone. 

Along the queue, outside of the barriers that hem in the guests, are a variety of horror-themed gimmicks, designed to make the waiting experience a little less gruelling. The first they get to is an animatronic figure of a little boy in a yellow raincoat, peering into a sewer grate where a pair of glowing white eyes is visible. In true Turtle Cove fashion, however, the little boy’s arm has rusted off, and his back has been scrawled with graffiti. Someone named ‘Bowers’ has signed his name enthusiastically, several times. 

Bev takes a selfie with this display in the background and posts it to her Instagram story. She tries to take one of Eddie, too, but he’s busy being equal parts boiled alive by the lack of shade, irritated to insanity by the excitable morons jostling him from all sides, and terrified at the thought of actually boarding this death trap yet again. He swats her phone away, glaring, and she laughs, but doesn’t try it again. 

“Too bad you won’t show off your pretty face,” she tells him, “my followers like you. A real best friend would let me exploit them for personal gain.”

“You sound like a cult leader,” Eddie tells her, and then the queue moves, finally, and they’re in the inside portion, which is set up like a terrible spooky funhouse. There are warped mirrors on either side of them, which everyone except for Eddie has great fun pulling faces into, until the lights flicker, die, and a clown’s mutated face appears in all of them, making people shriek and fall about with laughter. Eddie, having endured this queue’s gimmicks twice before, knows it’s going to happen, but still jumps, because everyone else jumps. “I hate this fucking ride,” he mutters, for the billionth time, and Bev pats him unsympathetically. “You’re buying me lunch after this.” 

The next moronic display is a framed portrait of a figure in ghoulish makeup, stood so perfectly still, and looking so 3-dimensional that Eddie just knows it’s a real person. Still, when the figure inevitably gives up being inanimate and shrieks at them all, jumps out of its frame, and runs at the queue, making everyone scream, Eddie screams too. 

“Hold up, zombie,” Bev calls out once the ghoul has ceased terrorising everyone, and is heading back to its frame, “is that Mike under there? Mike Hanlon?” 

The ghoul freezes, whirling round to face her; beneath the prosthetic flayed skin covering his face, the boy apparently named Mike grins widely, running over to the barrier where Eddie and Bev stand. Several people rear back as he approaches, still alarmed by the sight of him. Eddie must admit, by the standards of this place, the makeup is damn good.

“Beverly!” Mike cries, hands planted on the railing. “Shoulda known you’d be straight on The Neibolt.” He turns to wink at Eddie. “Nerves of fucking steel, this one.”

Bev laughs, and as the queue moves up a notch, Mike shuffles along with them. “Have you met Eddie?” she asks. “Nerves of fucking cotton wool, but he’s still agreed to ride with me.”

“Respect, bro,” Mike tells him with a nod, “this thing hasn’t had a safety inspection in-”

“Anyway!” Bev interrupts loudly, drawing a frantic finger across her neck at Mike. It’s too late, though, Eddie’s sense of pure dread is already fifty times more potent than it had been moments ago. “Hey, Mikey, how long is the wait from here, d’you reckon? I need to piss.” 

He wrinkles his nose in thought, making fake skin flaps flutter. “Maybe fifteen? Twenty if it’s a slow day.” 

She sighs heavily. “Guess I’ll hold it.”

“Hey, I know how you feel. I get one pee break a day on top of lunch. Management don’t give a shit about us.”

“Speaking of lunch,” Bev says, talking fast now because they’re about to move into the next room, “we’re meeting Bill Denborough for lunch in the racist Mexico land, wanna join us?” 

“Hell yeah,” Mike says, lifting his gory hand in a wave. “See you then, Bev! You too, Eddie! Don’t think about the rusted nuts and bolts, okay?”

“Great advice, thanks,” Eddie calls back sarcastically, and then lets himself be herded into the next corridor of horrors along with the rest of the crowd. 

*

After a melée of similarly awful scenes meant to ‘entertain’ queuers, Eddie is so exasperated that he’s actually wishing he could hurry up and get the ride over with, despite the fact he’ll likely pee his pants on the way round. Sometimes, too, the conductor can be goaded into letting the cart go around the track twice, if the shouts of riders are loud enough. That had been an unexpected treat for Eddie’s second, and, he’d thought, final, time on The Neibolt. It’s only as they finally emerge in the loading dock area, where a queue of people _still_ snakes around itself, that Eddie hears a familiar obnoxious voice penetrating the loud hubbub. Bev’s ears prick up as well, and she turns to shoot Eddie a grin. 

“Oh, God,” Eddie mutters, ears already pink. 

Richie Tozier is dressed today in an artfully distressed version of his usual uniform, the blue polo shirt gouged with ‘burn’ marks and claw rips. It exposes a wedge of his skinny torso, which makes Eddie feel strange, like he shouldn’t be looking. His turtle cap is angled oddly atop his wild hair, and his face is smattered with streaks of dirt and fake blood. He’s also, evidently, absolutely _loving_ the part he’s been given to play today, if the enthusiasm with which he’s engaging with the riders - jumpscaring them at every opportunity, putting on ridiculous ‘ghostly’ voices, spinning tales of past riders that have had their limbs and brains spewed all over the tracks when their buckles break - is anything to go by. 

He doesn’t spot Eddie immediately, distracted as he is by his own performance, but after a while his gaze skims over the queue whilst he’s mid-tale of horror, and Eddie actually sees how his eyes brighten, though he does deign to finish his story before leaping the barriers and bounding over towards them. 

“You made it!” he shouts, grinning at Eddie and Bev like he’d specifically invited them. “Knew you weren’t a pussy, Spagheds.”

“Stop calling me that,” Eddie says, but truthfully, he’s weirdly glad for the distraction of Richie’s annoying presence. It’s quieting the roiling of his stomach. “You’re working as a ride attendant now? I thought you were restricted to the simpleton role of making dumb jokes about jizzing into clown mouths.” 

“Yeahhh, well, for the most part, TC workers are stuck with the job management gives them, but apparently they didn’t like hearing that I forked over one of the precious giant turtles.” Richie laughs, not seeming to care a bit. “Got a snotty note in my locker this morning, telling me I’d been ‘reassigned’. Gave me this snazzy new uniform and everything. Whaddya think? Kinda sexy in a mauled-by-a-cryptid way, right?”

He does a twirl. Eddie gapes at him, horrified. “Are you serious?” 

“You got in trouble for giving Eddie a stuffed turtle?” Bev asks, eyebrows jumping skyward. 

“Worth it,” Richie declares, winking at Eddie. “When this one bats his lashes, I’m helpless. I’d fork over my life savings.”

“What’s that?" Eddie asks dryly. "A Marvel comics collection and a month’s minimum wage?”

“Hey!” Richie cries, delightedly. “It’s a D.C. collection! Don’t lash out just ‘cause it’s your flirting that got me spanked by management’s big, turtley flipper-”

“I was _not flirt_ -” Eddie tries to protest, but he doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

“Anyway, it’s cool,” Richie interrupts, loud. “I kinda like this job better,” he says, pulling a quick scary face, “beats baking in the sun at any rate. I was having to soak myself with the water guns to keep cool.” 

Eddie tries not to think about this - the wet Turtle Cove t-shirt clinging, sopping wet, to Richie’s skinny frame, his long hair dripping beads of moisture down his neck - and his resolve holds up very badly. He pulls out his inhaler as a distraction from his reddening cheeks. 

“It’s truly thrilling to see your adorable blushing face, Eds,” Richie says, not the slightest bit fooled. “I feel like I’ve spent hours toiling in the dark depths of this chamber, just waiting for you to appear.” 

“What am I, chopped liver?” Bev asks, but she’s smiling amusedly, leant against the railing. 

Richie blows her a kiss. “Your face is also adorable, Marsh. But I’m shooting my shot at your bestie here.” 

“I’d stand back a little,” Bev warns, “he bites.”

“Yowza,” Richie replies. 

“Makes sense that you’d like it down here,” Eddie interrupts, annoyed. “Grimy, dank, crammed with brainless idiots. Sounds like your paradise.” 

The sigh of adoration Richie gives him in response to this… insult, is completely at odds with how Eddie expects him to react. He frowns back, once again thrown off by the intense gaze Richie is fixing on him. 

“Please, Eds, smack talk me again,” Richie begs with a leer, “I love it.” 

Eddie holds up his middle finger, and Richie pretends to swoon. Bev, laughing, catches Richie by the arm as the queue starts to move. “Hey, Romeo, have lunch with us? We’re meeting up with Bill and Mike in El Mexicana.”

“Ah, for tacos and tequila,” Richie cries in an even worse Spanish accent than Bev’s. “Is Eds’ fanny pack attending?” She nods, to Eddie's dismay. “Then I shall be there with bells on.” 

He winks, leaping back over the railing to run back to his spot, where he’s supposed to be helping buckle people into their seats. Eddie can’t help but wonder who has been doing that for the last two carts of people. Now that Richie’s aggressive flirting has stirred up a cocktail of confusing emotions in his stomach, Eddie is distracted enough that he doesn’t notice the queue moving until they’re right at the front, close enough to observe Richie’s clownery between the rows of hanging seats. 

“...and then, as her fingers were sliced off by the wheels, she plummeted, down into the depths of The Neibolt’s open jaws, never to be seen again!!” he finishes, fingers waggling, right up in the face of a young, terrified-looking woman. He tugs, briefly, at her belt buckle to check it not-very-reassuringly, then winks at her. “Anyway, enjoy your ride!” 

Then, Richie leaps out of the path of the cart, seconds before it shoots off into the tunnel. He glances across the platform to note who’s next as the next cart rolls in, and grins, seeing Eddie waiting at the gate. He keeps grinning at Eddie while he ushers the last lot of riders off, guiding them towards the exit. Then, all too soon for Eddie’s once-more churning stomach, the gates are sliding open, and the loud voice that they’ve all been hearing on repeat for half an hour booms: _“Climb on… if you dare….”_

Beverly, for once, had not insisted that they separate into the extra queue for the front seats, but Eddie suspects this is not because of any loyalty towards him, and rather because the queue for the front takes longer, and she quite badly needs to pee now. Whatever the reason, though, Eddie is glad of the seats in front of him blocking his view of what he knows to be a steep uphill climb of track once they’re through the tunnel. 

Richie is in front of him the moment his butt hits the seat - disgustingly warmed by the previous person’s butt - and reaches his long arms up to pull the brace down over Eddie’s head. But Eddie holds up a hand to stop him, ferreting about quickly in his belt bag for his hand sanitiser, which he quickly spurts onto his hands. Richie laughs a great amount at this, so Eddie glares, thinking about kicking him in the leg. He’s close enough to kick. More than close enough, actually. He’s stood right in the V of Eddie’s legs, arms still stretched above him to hold the brace, leaning forward into Eddie’s personal space. 

“Would you back up a little?” Eddie demands angrily. “I’m claustrophobic enough in this torture chair without you wafting your pit stink in my face.” 

Richie just grins even wider, and pulls the brace down in an impressively smooth motion, his upper arms straining with the strength it must take to do so. He presses his body weight down into the spot where it clicks into place, which happens to be right between Eddie’s legs. Eddie tries not to do him the favour of meeting his sparkling gaze, but can’t help it, as there’s nowhere else to look. 

“You scared, gorgeous?” Richie asks in a low, penetrative voice that he’s not sure anyone else would be able to hear. 

He reaches for the buckle dangling between Eddie’s knees - an additional part of the safety support that looks so flimsy that it surely wouldn’t hold a two-year old if the brace snapped. Richie’s eyes flick back to Eddie’s while he fastens and adjusts it. Isn’t he supposed to be doing his ‘bit’ for everyone else right now? What about the other riders’ braces and buckles? 

“I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t scared,” Eddie grumbles, wishing he could so much as squirm right now. His legs feel squeezy and tingly, right where Richie’s hands are almost brushing the inside of his thighs. “This ride is a danger to-”

“Hey,” Richie says, moving his hands to grip the bars that Eddie uses to cling to when he’s rocketing down the death drops at break-neck speed, “look at me. I’d never put someone as cute as you in actual danger, okay?” 

“Just the ones you’re not relentlessly harassing, then?” 

Richie’s face is close enough that Eddie can see the fake blood flaking off him from the sweat. He’s got a thin patina of stubble, too, around his steely jaw. His breath is surprisingly sweet, like he’s been munching candy. 

“That’s right,” Richie tells him with a smirk, “so you’re in luck. See you after.”

Eddie tries to still his thoughts enough to pluck out a retort, but right then, Richie leaps out of the way, literally milliseconds before the cart is lurching forwards, or so it seems. It’s that - Richie’s narrow escape from being flattened - that occupies the forefront of Eddie’s mind as they hurtle through the dark tunnel rather than the terrifying experience he’s about to endure. Bev, beside him, shouts something to him, but it’s lost to the roar of the tunnel. Then, quite suddenly, they emerge into fresh air, bright and blinding after so long queueing in the darkness. 

“What?” Eddie calls back to her, his panic surging back up as the click-click-click of the first half of their cart begins its ascent.

“I said,” Bev calls again, clearer now, “what did he say to you?!”

“Who?” 

Bev tries swinging her leg to kick him, making Eddie yelp. “Richie! What’d he say?”

“Um… he told me I’m not gonna die,” Eddie replies, summarising, “but I don’t get the sense that he’s all that trustworthy!”

“He’s really smart, remember!” Bev calls back. 

Their backs are now almost parallel to the ground, but Eddie is trying very hard not to think about this and how unnatural it is. He’s also trying not to think about the nuts and bolts holding this track together, as Mike had helpfully suggested. Desperate for comfort that Bev is so very terrible at giving out, Eddie clings to her point that Richie Tozier is, supposedly, extremely clever. And surely an extremely clever person would not allow for hundreds of young people to board an _actually_ dangerous rollercoaster under his watch. 

“I guess!” Eddie squeaks, though he’s pretty sure it’s lost to the wind at this point.

The crescendo of excited squeals is beginning to sound from the front of the cart, meaning that they can see the drop ahead of them. Eddie, taking the warning, promptly squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the handles of his brace very tight. 

“Eddie!” Bev calls out, as if he could possibly respond right now. “What face shall we pull for the camera?” 

Eddie does not bother to reply, and then, the velocity of the front rows of people tipping over the edge of the drop tugs them along behind, and the wind is rushing past Eddie’s ears, and he’s screaming, screaming, his stomach left somewhere up in the sky.

*

Richie is immediately up in his face again, unbuckling his shackles from the seat the moment they’ve rolled back into the loading area. Eddie imagines he’s probably gone deathly pale, but Richie pays it no mind, taking him by the hands and hauling him upright with a big smile. 

“You did it!” he announces proudly, and Eddie hasn’t the mental stability right now to pull his hands free. “You got a brave friend here, Bevster.” 

“Sure do,” Bev agrees, taking Eddie from him like he’s a child. Eddie just lets himself be passed between them, not sure he’d be able to walk on his own given that his legs seem to be made of panacotta right now. “C’mon, Braveheart, let’s get you something sugary for the shock.”

“I’m off in ten,” Richie calls as they head for the exit. “See you in Mexico!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping you're all enjoying the story so far! Thank you for all the kind comments <3

Eddie has to be force fed a churro, as he’d rather die than willingly consume deep fried batter sprinkled in sugar, but as Bill is holding his hand over Eddie’s mouth, forbidding him from spitting it out again, Eddie supposes he might as well chew and swallow before he chokes on it. He understands, thanks to his mom, that sugar and fat are addictive substances, leading to America’s obesity problem. But what he’d failed to take into account was the reason people get addicted, which is, apparently, that sugar-coated, deep fried fat is fucking delicious. 

He actually moans a little when he swallows the sweet mush, and of course, that’s the moment that Richie decides to make an entrance. He’s got his arm slung around the shoulders of a very pretty girl, also wearing a Turtle Cove uniform. Hers is space-turtle themed. Her cap has those stupid, improbable antennae springing off of it. But it makes her look cute, even so. 

“Woah, what am I missing here?” Richie demands to know, his arm slipping from the girl’s shoulders at once as he hooks his long legs into the bench on the picnic table beside Eddie. “Is that your O-face, Eds? It’s a little more graphic than I imagined.”

Eddie finishes choking down the churro, ready to ask what on earth Richie has been imagining in his spare time, but Bev gets there first. 

“We’re forcing Eddie to eat something sweet because he almost passed out on the way here,” she explains, which Eddie glares at her for. “He was making a fuss because he’s convinced himself that a diet of carrot sticks and lean meats is the only way to stave off heart disease.” 

Richie frowns at this, his sharp mind attempting to pare the gristle from this wad of confusing information. 

“Crazy mom,” Eddie says by way of succinct explanation, and reaches for the water bottle he had made Bev buy him along with the churro. He drinks a gulp, trying not to imagine the fats and oils seeping through his digestive system. “She broke my brain when I was little.” 

“Ah,” Richie says with a wise nod, “I know that trick.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, but it intrigues Eddie enough that the urge to kick Richie off the bench recedes slightly. Bill asks Eddie if he’s feeling better, and he says he’s trying to forget the entire Neibolt experience, which offends Richie, who immediately begins explaining, loudly, with a lot of hand gestures, why he’s the best attendant on the ride. The girl he’d brought with him stands awkwardly at the end of the table; there’s no room for her to sit down with Bill, Mike, Bev, Eddie, and Richie all crammed around it. Mike, still in his decaying face makeup, turns to engage her in pity-smalltalk, but eventually she just drifts away, shooting Richie a dirty look. 

“Racking ‘em up already, I see,” Bev says to Richie, nodding to the girl’s retreating back. 

Richie glances up like he’s only just remembered her, then turns back to flash Bev a grin. “Melody Forster. She took a shine to me, what can I say?”

“Ugh,” Eddie mutters because he can’t help it, and shakes his head. Richie steals the rest of Eddie’s churros, cooling tantalisingly in their paper cone. Eddie had been ignoring their siren call, but now that Richie has begun munching on them, he finds himself snatching them back. “You’re gross.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you snagged my heart soon as you sashayed those li’l shorts past my games booth,” Richie complains, plucking a churro out of the cone Eddie’s holding before Eddie can slap his hand away. Richie grins at him around a mouthful of churro matter, making Eddie retch. “See this, Bill? Love at first sight.” 

“G-g-good luck,” Bill laughs, spearing a forkful of fries. “Eddie’s about as charmable as a black mamba.” 

“I have a wealth of expertise in snake handling,” Richie replies at once, winking suggestively, so quick that Eddie’s starting to believe all these reports of his intelligence. 

Eddie stuffs a churro into his mouth, making Bev raise an eyebrow. 

“Hey, Rich,” she says not-so-casually, “I’m having a party.” 

Eddie chokes. Richie bangs him on the back, so Eddie smacks him in the shoulder. “Oh yeah?” Richie asks, not seeming to care a wink that he’s been assaulted. “What’s the occasion?” 

“I’m bored and I want a party,” Bev answers. “You wanna come?”

“Depends. Will you be attending, Spagheddie?” Richie asks.

Eddie shrugs, munching on the end of his third churro; what’s wrong with him? He can’t stop. “I guess so.” 

Richie returns his attention to Bev, fingers interlaced on the table before him. “I accept your invitation, in that case, Ms Marsh. When and where?” 

“Check your Facebook invite,” Bev tells him, turning back to a conversation Bill’s been trying to engage her in for the past five minutes. 

“Ugh, I hate Facebook,” Richie complains, attempting to pinch another churro. 

This time, Eddie manages to snatch the cone away, but he’s so surprised by Richie’s confession that he puts it down between them anyway. 

“Why d’you have it, then?” Mike asks, snorting. He’s eating a burger in small bites he’s tearing off with his fingers, trying not to dislodge the prosthetics. 

“To keep tabs on your mom,” Richie jokes. 

“My mom’s dead, asshole,” Mike says with an eye roll, but, for some reason, doesn’t seem to take offence. Eddie, on his behalf, looks horrified. Mike notices, and holds up a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry, Eddie. It’s just Trashmouth Tozier. You gotta know, if you’re friends with this shithead, that half of what comes out of his mouth is hot, rotten garbage.” 

"C-can confirm,” Bill pipes up. 

Richie glowers at them both, but he’s smiling beneath it. “Sorry, Mikey. I actually use Facebook to keep up with Bill’s scintillating updates about the Asia trip he’s planned out in such painstaking detail.”

“Hey,” Bill cries, throwing his balled up napkin at Richie’s head. “It’s not weird to prepare!”

“It’s kinda weird to post your whole route online though,” Richie points out, unfurling the napkin and beginning to tear it into strips. “ With that much information I could follow along behind you for the whole trip. Imagine… every hostel you’ll be hitting, I’ll have snagged the bunk below yours. Every temple and hot spring, there I’ll be, stewing, naked as the way God intended...”

Bev cackles. “Oh, God. Bill, are your flights refundable?” 

Eddie finds himself smiling as well at this, which Richie notices, and shoots Eddie a look of pride. It’s nice, sort of, because he feels included. But Richie is still so annoying Eddie can barely stand him for the short stretch of lunch. He finishes up Eddie’s churros without him even noticing. Eventually, at two thirty on the dot, the Turtle Cove employees all rise from their seats, bickering about the party and what or who to bring. Bev and Eddie watch them leave with certain despondence, especially Bev, who had been getting very cosy with Bill on her side of the table while Eddie had several stern talks with Richie about table etiquette, frequent hand washing after working in the park all day, and not abandoning poor young women when you’d promised to have lunch with them. 

Richie had mostly responded with teasing, flirtatious comments, his chin in his hand, but Eddie is fairly sure some of it had landed. Maybe. 

“You wanna go on the Bucking Turtle ride again?” Bev asks Eddie, glumly, once Bill has slunk back to his stall. 

Eddie is watching Richie and Mike head back towards Horrorville, how easily Richie slings his arm around Mike’s shoulders. And, moreover, how many Turtle Cove workers - girls, particularly - turn to wave and call out to Richie as he walks by. 

“Or maybe you want to ride something else…?” Bev asks, chuckling, and Eddie, of course, blushes before turning to flip her off. 

*

The next day, Bev doesn’t drag him to Turtle Cove, for which Eddie is extremely grateful. On the other hand, he’s unhappy with her for abandoning him to go and hang out with Ben the Architect. At a loss for any excuses, Eddie resigns himself to a day of running errands for his mother. He tidies, dusts, and mops the house - or the rooms that she goes in, anyway. He makes a valiant attempt at trimming the hedge in the front yard, where he succeeds in scratching his left cheek and a lot of his forearm. He cooks a huge vat of stew from a cookbook that seems to date back to the fifties, and freezes two-thirds of it for the upcoming week's dinners. Then, late in the day, at around five, he goes shopping. He’s originally planning on just stopping by the pharmacy to pick up his and his mom’s prescriptions along with a few other bits, but his mom stops him at the door and reels off a list of groceries he needs to get too. 

Eddie rides to the supermarket first on his bike, getting her ‘essentials’: syrup pound cake, full-fat coffee creamer, butter popcorn, and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food. He pauses in the alcohol aisle, wondering if there’s any way in hell he could get a bottle of something for Bev’s party and pretend to the clerk he was buying it for his mom, brandishing her wallet at him as proof. But he’d probably just have the police called on him for stealing a lady’s wallet, and then his mom would never let him outside again. 

He’ll have to think of a different plan. 

He pays for the items with his mom’s credit card, slings the bag over his bike’s handlebars and rides to the pharmacy. It’s getting late now, and the sun is beginning its slow descent, not that it actually sets until nine-ish nowadays. He collects the prescriptions from Mr Keene, smiling placidly in the face of the usual lecture about skin protection and the cancer-causing sunburn on his nose, then finally, finally, pulls open the pharmacy door, the overhead bell like a gunshot of freedom. He is done for the day. 

It’s only as he’s breathing out a sigh of pure relief that he feels the prickle of a stare from the park on the other side of the road. The park is a useless patch of grass, sporting a few benches, an unused bandstand and a weird, tacky statue of Paul Bunyan. Sat on the bench nearest the street are a gaggle of youths, around Eddie’s age or slightly older. A few of them wear Turtle Cove colours and hats.

One of them is Richie Tozier. 

When Eddie’s eyes focus on him, he lifts his hand and smirks. Eddie flushes, but nods once, walking briskly to his bike, gaze fixed on the sidewalk. Richie must have just gotten out of work. It’s weird seeing him out in the open like this, lounging in the middle of Derry like he lives here, which Eddie supposes he does. Just because Eddie’s never seen him around doesn’t mean that he doesn’t belong on that bench as much as every other Derry resident. But still, it’s weird. 

“Hey, Spagheds!” a voice calls out, loud enough to reach Eddie’s ears all the way on the other side of the street. His ears burn, and he wonders if he could just ignore it, cycle away before Richie can get to him. But he’s foolishly locked his bike to the rack. Eddie sighs heavily, putting the grocery bag, and the pharmacy bag, down on the sidewalk beside the bike while he rummages in his pocket for the key. “Eddie Spaghetti!” comes the voice again, and this time, to Eddie’s dismay, it’s even louder. Closer. He darts a look up, fearful, just in time to watch Richie bound across the road after checking for cars. “You avoiding me, gorgeous?” 

“No,” Eddie replies tersely, “I had my hands full. I couldn’t wave back.” 

The key’s serrated edge presses into Eddie’s fingertip inside of his pocket. Richie looks at the bags, frowning. “They look heavy.” 

“They are,” Eddie replies, and pulls the key out. He thinks about stooping to unlock the bike, but the only way he can do that is by bending over the handlebars, thereby shoving his ass in Richie’s face, pretty much. And that would undoubtedly spark a whole firework display of comments from the Trashmouth. So he just stands, dithering. “Can I help you, Richie? You don’t have to chat with me, you know. You can go back to your friends.” 

Richie makes a ‘pshhh’ noise. “Those losers? I see ‘em every day. You cruelly deprived me of your _belle visage aujord’hui_.” 

“Well, here I am,” Eddie says dryly, spreading his hands ironically. “Your quota has been filled. I gotta go.” 

He looks pointedly at the bike, and for some reason, Richie takes this as a hint to pluck the key from Eddie’s fingers and lean over to unlock it for him. “Tell you what,” Richie suggests, bent in half to stretch his enormous frame down to the lock, “I’ll give you a lift home. I can get my full Eddie fix on the drive.” 

Eddie splutters, too busy trying to work out what that could possibly mean to form some variation of ‘no way in hell’. 

Richie shoots a grin over his shoulder. “Nothing weird! Just a li’l chit-chat. My day was a lot less exciting without your barrage of cold-hearted abuse.” He struggles with the key for a minute more, grunting quietly as he wiggles the rusted lock about; Eddie struggles not to look straight at Richie’s behind - only because it’s so perfectly aimed into his line of vision. He’s wearing jeans that are too big, as well, so they slip down to reveal a slice of his boxers. Dark blue, almost black Calvin Kleins. Suddenly, almost but not quite quickly enough to catch Eddie staring, Richie straightens with an “aha!”. He holds the bike lock up triumphantly, like it’s a fish he’s caught. “My car’s shitty but we can fit this in the boot with the seats down. Whaddya say?” 

Eddie looks worriedly down at the bags of shopping, thinking of that tub of Ben and Jerry’s, which was already starting to defrost in the bag on the way to the pharmacy. “Fine, whatever,” he says, grabbing the bike by the handlebars to tug it out of the rack. “But I’m disinfecting the seatbelt. And yes,” Eddie interrupts before Richie can voice his counter, “you also have to wear your seatbelt.”

Richie bows his assent, and before Eddie can move to get them, scoops up both his shopping bags, which he slides onto his bare forearms along with the bike lock. Eddie is left behind as Richie strides ahead, having to jog alongside his bike to catch up. Richie takes them past the edge of the park so he can wave to his friends. 

“See you freaks tomorrow,” he calls, and they all wave back, some nudging each other and whispering in a way that makes Eddie blush. He turns to Eddie, inclining his head towards the adjacent street. “This way, my damseau in distress.”

Eddie snorts. “What’s that make you, the noble steed?” 

Richie’s car is, as described, a hunk of crap. The paint, whatever colour it might once have been, has rusted off into a pale salmon colour. The door of the boot creaks so loud when Richie pulls it open that Eddie winces, sure it’s about to fall off. Nevertheless, as Richie promised, the bike does cram in with the back seats pushed down. Richie raises his hands triumphantly when the boot closes, then reaches out for a high five from Eddie. 

“When did you last wash your hands?” Eddie asks, suspiciously. 

Richie lowers his hand, snorting with laughter. “Not a toucher?” 

He pulls open Eddie’s door for him. A bizarre experience for Eddie, who was under the impression this only happened to long-legged, greyscale women in old romance movies. He blushes, and lowers himself into the seat, tucking his legs neatly into the well before Richie shuts the door. He acts like it’s nothing, so Eddie decides it’s probably just one of his quirks, and doesn’t mention it. 

“It’s not that,” Eddie says when Richie plonks himself into the driver’s seat, slamming his own door shut with far less care. Richie looks at him before he turns the key in the ignition, waiting for Eddie to elaborate. “I mean, I'm a toucher sometimes.”

Eddie’s eyes close, too late. He truly is a socially inept moron.

“ _Really_?” Richie pounces on the opportunity at once. “What I wouldn’t pay to experience that!” 

“I just _mean_ ,” Eddie stresses, teeth gritted, “that I’m a germaphobe, but it’s a lot better than it used to be. When I was a kid I’d freak out about touching a public surface or a stranger’s hand. Now I can deal with… normal physical contact. Hugs, handshakes, that kind of thing.”

“Tonguing?” Richie asks, but he’s obviously joking. He turns the key in the ignition, snickering at Eddie’s disgusted face. “I get it, Eds. You think I’m gross. But allow me to assure you I washed my hands like ten minutes ago, after I left work. Your cootie-free immune system will be safe.” 

He holds out a hand again, wordlessly requesting another high five, and this time, Eddie gives it to him. He makes a humph of assent, resisting the urge to splurt a wad of sanitiser on the hand once he settles it back into his lap. Richie pulls the car to the end of the street, smiling so wide it’s as if Eddie had full on blown him instead of let their hands, briefly, make contact. 

He’s a surprisingly careful driver, Eddie grudgingly observes. At least so far. Checking his mirrors at regular intervals. Hands at ten and two. Nothing like Bev, whose driving frequently makes Eddie recite the Lord’s prayer under his breath, despite his growing agnosticism. 

“I know we both know I camp outside your house every night with binoculars, Eds,” Richie says as they get to the end of the high street, “but do you wanna tell me your address so we can at least pretend that’s not the case?”

Eddie forces himself not to smack his own forehead. “Make a left here,” he says instead, flushing, “it’s Lobelia Avenue.”

“Oh!” Richie exclaims. “Where Stan Uris lives.”

Eddie looks at him. “You know Stan?” 

“Yeah! He’s great, love that guy.” 

Eddie’s mind goes into overdrive trying to work out how this connection could possibly have been made, but comes up empty. “He’s my next door neighbour. Sorry- how the hell do you know him?”

“He’s in my improv club,” Richie says brightly, like sombre, serious Stanley Uris being in an improvised comedy club is a reasonable explanation. “He’s hilarious! A lot of people think improv’s all about being quick, but Stan’s got this amazing technique. He’ll take a long pause, make you wait for his reaction, and really think about the perfect thing to say. And, I gotta say, he crushes it, every single time. That kid is a genius at comedy. So cutting and sharp. I fall on my ass laughing at his stuff.” 

“That… doesn’t fit with the Stan I know,” Eddie confesses, feeling displaced. “But then, I guess I don’t know him all that well.”

Richie glances over at him. “You guys aren’t friends? Not a Spiderman and... whatever the redhead is called situation?” 

Eddie snorts. “No. We just… partner together sometimes. Nod to each other in the halls, that kind of thing. We don’t hang out.”

“Too bad. He’s a lot of fun.”

Eddie studies Richie’s profile, the way his lips move as he mumbles along to the Dua Lipa song on the radio. Eddie hates this song, so of course Richie turns it up louder; luckily, they’re almost at Eddie’s house. 

“It’s just here,” Eddie says, gesturing to his house, suddenly embarrassed by the state of it. The branches he’d cut from the hedges earlier are strewn across the grass still. 

Richie whistles, smile broadening as he takes it in. “Nice. That your pruning skill I can see?” 

Eddie thrusts his forearm out, displaying the angry red scratches criss-crossing over the skin. “Can’t you tell?” 

“Ouch!” Richie exclaims, and grabs hold of Eddie’s arm before he can think to retract it. “Jeez, Eds, you gotta be more careful with yourself.” He glances up, noticing the scratch on Eddie’s cheek, too. His hand lifts, and Eddie knows he’s about to be touched on the face, but he doesn’t feel the knee-jerk reaction to rear back, like he usually does. Instead, Richie’s fingertips brush him, delicately tracing the curve of the cut; a frown line forms between his thick brows. “Can’t be damaging the goods like this. What’ll I dream about if your face is cut to ribbons?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but not before his cheeks scald Richie’s fingerprints off, probably. Richie pulls his hand back, and Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “I’ll bear your concerns in mind,” he retorts, sarcasm his trusted safety net, and tugs his arm out of Richie’s hold. He feels like his damn _wrist_ is blushing. “Thanks for the ride,” Eddie forces himself to say. “The ice cream might only be seventy percent liquid now.”

“Anything for the cutest critter in Derry,” is Richie’s reply. “Gonna come see me at the park tomorrow?” 

“Absolutely not.”

“But Eeeedds,” he wheedles, “it’s so boring there without you.”

“I’ve only been coming there for two days,” Eddie points out. “You were just fine before you knew I existed.” 

“Fine is a relative term,” Richie says, “now I know you exist, it’s all over. I’m ruined.”

Eddie can’t help laughing at the theatrics. “You’re so annoying. And dramatic.”

Richie smiles because Eddie smiles, obviously delighted to have procured even this modicum of joy. It’s a bit of an achievement, Eddie will admit, what with the dark cloud that’s been hanging over his head recently. 

“I’ll see you at Bev’s though?” Richie asks hopefully, like a big, lolloping, eager dog. 

“Obviously,” Eddie says, reaching for the door handle. “Try not to traumatise any kids on The Neibolt with your horror stories.” 

“Oh, they bumped me from The Neibolt,” Richie says casually. “I’m in Wild West World now.” 

He aims a fake gun at Eddie, then blows the invisible smoke from the tip. Eddie frowns. “Oh, okay. Well… have fun with that, then.” 

Richie smiles. “Thanks, pardner.”

“I’m going inside now.”

“Eds, it’s just not appropriate for you to invite me in on our first date. I’m not that kind of guy.” 

“ _Date_?” Eddie exclaims, horrified. 

“I’m lying, I’m totally that kind of guy. I’ll be any guy you want. Lead the way-”

“You’re not coming into my house.” 

Richie pouts, but doesn’t look the slightest bit less hopeful. “Next time, I get it. Tell your mom I say hey.” 

“She’d flip her nut if I told her about you.”

Richie grins widely. “‘Cause she’d want me all for herself? I get it, I’m a hot piece, but it’s you, darling Eds, that I’ve set my sights on-”

“Bye, Richie.”

Eddie climbs out of the car, poorly attempting to hide his laughter. He pulls the grocery bags out of the back seat and heads for the kerb, waggling his fingers as best he can given that the bags are weighing him down. Richie toots his horn as he drives away, and Eddie watches the car trundle down the road, and there, visible through the back window, his bike’s handlebars waving back at him. Damn it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Eddie  
** Hey.

 **Bev**  
? 

**Bev  
**...hey??

 **Eddie**  
What?

 **Bev  
** who starts texts with a   
greeting anymore

 **Eddie**   
What am I supposed to   
start them with? 

**Bev  
** nothing!! just start speaking!!

 **Eddie  
** I’m not a heathen.

 **Bev**  
whatever. u cleaely wanted to   
talk to me about something just   
say it my dude

 **Eddie  
** *clearly

 **Bev  
** *middle finger emoji*

 **Eddie**  
Do you want to go to Turtle Cove  
tomorrow?

 **Bev  
** im pretty sure you can hear me   
CACKLING if you listen hard

 **Eddie  
** I’m serious.

 **Bev  
** have u chopped up my best friend  
and buried him in his garden

 **Bev  
** u better not have done. he hates  
dirt

 **Eddie  
** BEV WILL YOU COME TO TC WITH  
ME OR NOT

 **Bev  
** is this about richie?

 **Eddie  
** If I say yes will you drive me there?

 **Bev  
** why do u even need me to be involved  
if you wanna go so bad? cycle over

 **Eddie  
** The only thing that makes that place  
tolerable is you. Don’t make me beg.

 **Bev  
** u dont gotta beg me man. i love that  
shithole

 **Eddie  
** Your lack of taste is horrifying. But   
thanks. 

**Bev  
** is around 3pm ok? im busy till then

 **Eddie  
** Sure. Another date with Ben the Architect?

 **Bev  
** *upside down smiley face emoji*

*

Unlike Bev, a die-hard lover of Aqualand, Eddie doesn’t have a favourite area of the worst park on the planet. His least favourite, however, is probably Wild West World. Bev forces him to go to The World of Tomorrow first because she has _‘a hankering to cut Eddie up on the Turtle Moon Rovers’_. The Rovers are essentially Go Karts, but in the shape of turtle shells. Eddie indulges her, feeling weirdly nervous about tracking Richie down after explicitly saying he wouldn’t be coming to the park today. The queue is madly long, because this is, despite what Bev might argue, a kid’s ride. Also, Eddie cannot drive, so when they eventually get into their shells, Bev immediately speeds off and does an entire lap of the track while Eddie is still getting to grips with the pedals. 

He does his best, but earns himself several jeers from accelerator-happy kids flying past his slowly trundling shell. Bev mocks him mercilessly when they get off.

“Sure you didn’t get in a tortoise shell by accident?” she asks, so Eddie ‘accidentally’ trips her up. “Hey! I’m a lady, you can’t do that.”

“Aren’t you all for unpicking those backdated gender roles?” 

“Don’t use my own morals against me!” She shoves him, which makes them even, so Eddie drops it. “Where d’you wanna go now then? Neibolt?”

She says it with a wiggle of her eyebrows, like there’s a hidden meaning. Eddie just sends her a withering look. “Let’s go to Wild West World,” he suggests, as casually as he can. 

Unfooled, she's immediately suspicious. “You hate it there.” 

Eddie shrugs, not meeting her eye. He’s already walking in the direction. “But we’ve done everywhere else to death.” 

“Uh huh,” she says, matching his stride. “No other reason?”

“No,” Eddie snaps. 

Luckily, Bev is distracted by a text from Bill, which she lets Eddie read, smugly.

 **Bill  
** Hearing rumours among the Turtle   
Crew that a short, red-headed   
menace is running round the park   
today. Any truth to these claims?   
Are you thinking you can avoid a   
pit stop in Mexico? Shame on you x

“Oo-ooh, a kiss,” Eddie coos, trying to let Bill’s embarrassing flirting distract him from the archway ahead, on which a cowboy hat-wearing turtle flings a lasso. “You’re raking in the men today.”

“And every day,” she says coolly, tapping out a quick reply to him. “I’m gonna have to go see him before we leave. That cool?”

“Sure,” Eddie says, not really listening. 

They’re through the archway now, and Eddie’s eyes cast about furtively, scanning every face beneath a turtle cap. He can feel Bev’s quiet observation, but she refrains from pointing out how weird he’s being, thank God. He’s feeling extra anxious, so his defensive tongue would no doubt be doubly acidic today. 

They don’t get very far before Eddie spots him. He stops in his tracks, which he’d always thought was a dramatic expression not-very-good writers used in bad romance novels. Richie is working a games stall again, this one inviting patrons to hop up onto a raised horse’s saddle and shoot a shotgun at stacked tin cans balanced on a far off wall. Things are obviously a little more lax in Wild West World than they are in Arcade Avenue, because those are real pellets pinging off the metal cans. And Richie’s uniform, for this themed game, is very different. 

Eddie stares. Bev follows his gaze, and snorts with laughter. “Eddie, honey, tuck away your tongue. Or did you want me to drizzle oil on him for you?”

Richie’s wearing jeans. That’s the safe part. But above them, he’s forgone the standard blue Turtle Cove polo, which he has tied around his neck in a makeshift kerchief. There’s no booth for him to shield from the sun this time, so, presumably to keep cool, Richie’s chest is bare apart from the thin waistcoat he’s got on, two flaps of brown material that don’t do much to cover him. And then there’s the hat. Eddie should have known there’d be a dumb Turtle Cove cowboy hat as part of the uniform for this land, but there’s no way he could have predicted that Richie would actually manage to make it look anything less than ridiculous. And he does not look ridiculous.

Bev shoves Eddie in the back, sending him stumbling forward, and he’s kind of glad. He doesn’t think his feet would have moved on their own. What is wrong with him? His inner voice yells at him to get a grip; it’s just a bit of skin on show. Lots of sun-golden skin, misted with perspiration. Eddie swallows, and then they’re right beside the stall. Richie clocks him with a wonky grin, mimes throwing a lasso around him, and pulls him in. 

“Knew you couldn’t resist stoppin’ by, darlin’,” Richie drawls in a half-passable 'Wild West' accent. 

Eddie manages to keep his face relatively stoic, but he can feel the heat dialling up in his cheeks. 

“I left my bike in your car,” he blurts without preamble. Beside him, Bev whirls to fix him with an astonished stare. “I want it back, please.”

“I’m sorry, you left _what_ in _where_?” Bev chokes out, suddenly lit up with glee. 

“Aw, now honey, you’re gon’ have to be more specific,” Richie teases, twirling a plastic gun with his index finger through the trigger hole, “I get a looowt o’ pretty molls jus’ like you droppin’ their favours in front o’ me, hankerin’ for me to return ‘em.”

Deciding this schtick is getting old fast, Eddie elects to speed things along so he can go somewhere shady and fan his face back to a normal colour. If anything, being close enough to see the fine, sparse hairs on Richie’s chest is making his mortifying reaction to the stupid costume even worse. He digs into his shorts pocket and pulls out a five dollar note that his mom gave him to get more allergy medication that he doesn’t need. 

“If I play your dumb shooting game, will you give me my bike back?” 

Eddie holds out the note. Richie snatches it up, holding it to the sunlight like it’s a fifty, and whistles. “Well well, darlin’, look at all this sweet gold you’re carryin’.” He pushes the five back into Eddie’s hand, letting his fingers hover. “Keep it, Eds. A pretty thing like you can have whatever you want for free.” 

“Does that… mean you will give me my bike?”

“I finish in an hour,” Richie replies, checking his phone discreetly, then sliding it back into his baggy jeans pocket. Eddie’s eyes _don’t_ catch on the low-slung waistline of those jeans, _or_ how they hang precariously off Richie’s sharp hipbones. “Think you can mosey around ‘til then, sweetheart?”

Eddie just shrugs, turning to Bev. 

“Don’t look at me, hotshot, I’m just your driver,” she says, hands held up, “and apparently I’ve got competition there.” She aims a dramatic glare at Richie, who glares right back, pulling a plastic pistol from a holster at his hip and aiming it at her. 

“You wanna duel for his fair hand? I’ll smoke your ass, Marsh.”

“You wish. Nah, you can have him. I’m gonna go see one of my own many boy-toys.” She finger guns them both, then steps away from them, making Eddie’s heart lurch in dismay. “You cool to wait here for him to finish, Eddie? I’m gonna stop by and see Bill before the park closes. Meet you at the car?” 

“I’ll escort him safely back to yer, little missy,” Richie promises, then turns to take a customer’s money. 

It’s a little boy and his mom, and Richie puts on a cowboy performance worthy of a crappy children’s birthday party, letting the kid hold his pistol and ‘rob’ him at gunpoint. Bev laughs, making an ‘awww’ face at Eddie, then mouths ‘you good?’. Eddie nods, nervously, but lets her go. He can handle Richie alone for an hour, surely. He’s working anyway, he probably can’t even pay Eddie much-

“Alright, then, doll, step on up,” Richie says to Eddie, and holds out his hand. The little boy has finished his turn, and has run back to plead with his mother for money for another go. Eddie eyes the saddle he’s vacated warily; it looks filthy. Who knows how many people have sat their big, sweaty butts on it? “C’mon, darlin’. I already saw those gun-totin’ skills once. I know you can show these eejits what’s what.”

“Fine,” Eddie says, because he can’t very well stand here doing nothing for an entire hour. “But don’t go giving me another giant turtle or my mom will have an aneurysm yelling at me about it.” 

Eddie bypasses Richie’s offered hand to attempt climbing onto the saddle by himself, but Richie just takes this as an invitation to lift him up by the waist and settle him onto it. Eddie yelps, mostly in surprise over Richie’s improbable strength. 

“Comfy up there, sweetheart?” Richie asks, squinting up at him into the sun. His cowboy hat casts shadows over his freckled face. “Or d’you need me to adjust you?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie growls. “Hand me that gun already.” 

Richie raises his hands in surrender, backing up to grab one of the pellet shotguns leaning against the wall. “Now, what you gotta do with this baby is-”

“I can manage without your tutelage, thanks.”

Richie laughs, but stays quiet, and hands over the gun. Eddie, trembling hard, lifts the shotgun into a position he’s vaguely thinking he remembers from old movies he’s seen. It’s pointless to try too hard, he knows. He sucked at the clown filling game, and he’ll suck at this too. He takes a deep breath, aims the nozzle of the gun at the cans, and fires off a round until the bullets run out, and the trigger is making empty clicking sounds. 

Two of the pellets have made contact, Eddie sees. Two of the dented cans have fallen and rolled off the wall. 

Richie takes off his hat in disbelief. “Well, smack my pony!” He grins up at Eddie, genuinely thrilled for him. “You’re a regular li’l Annie Oakley, Eds!” 

Eddie can’t help smiling back; Richie’s dumb excitement is infectious. “I wouldn’t go that far.” 

“Poppycock, you’re a natural.” 

“Can I get down now? This thing is giving me vertigo.” 

“Accept my hand, sweetheart,” Richie says, holding it out. 

The little boy that had taken the turn before Eddie’s is hovering impatiently on the sidelines for a next turn, so Eddie does accept Richie’s hand to help him get down, for speed’s sake. Not because he likes how Richie’s hand completely smothers his, wrapping around it like it were a piece of candy. As his feet hit solid ground again, Eddie feels Richie placing something onto his head. He looks up, eyes now shaded enough that he can look straight into Richie’s face without squinting. 

“You’re lookin’ a li’l rosy there, doll,” Richie drawls, still clutching his hand. “Looks sweet on you.” 

It takes Eddie a moment to clock that Richie’s no longer wearing the turtle cowboy hat, and it is now sat on his own head. He fights an urge to fling it off, given how ridiculous it almost certainly looks, but has to admit to himself that Richie’s probably right. There’s no shade around here, and Eddie’s got to hang out for a whole hour. His nose will be bright pink without the hat by the time they make a move. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, tugging the brim down self-consciously. 

“Seriously,” Richie intones then, leaning forwards to whisper, his voice back to its normal inflection, except much lower, rougher, “you look damn good. Wanna come home with me later?”

“In your dreams,” Eddie scoffs, but can feel his cheeks doing their very best to match his nose’s pink glow. 

*

Finally, after an end-of-the-day barrage of last minute tin-can shooting enthusiasts, Richie is collecting the dented cans in a big black sack, and locking the guns away in a safe that doesn’t look very secure. He keeps up a running commentary in his cowboy twang the whole time, calling Eddie every vaguely Wild West themed pet name he can think of - _puddin’, darlin’, dollface, cowgirl, cowboy, pardner, cupcake, sweetums_ \- until Eddie thinks he might faint from the amount of blood that’s pumping directly into his cheeks. 

Eventually, once all the end of day tasks are completed, and Richie has counted up the takings, he beckons Eddie to follow him, leading them through Wild West World to a squat, unremarkable building beside the Turtle Mine Train with a ‘Staff Only’ sign on the door. He checks his phone before opening it. 

“The other’s’ll prob’ly have vamoosed by now, so I can sneak you behind the curtain,” he tells Eddie, then pulls a bunch of keys from his baggy jeans pocket and rifles through them until he finds the one that opens the door. “For some unfathomable reason, my fellow coworkers seem to bolt for the exit as soon as their hours are up.” 

He holds the door wide while Eddie walks through, which, again, throws him for six. “Yeah, no idea why they’d ever wanna leave,” Eddie says drily, and walks past him into the building. Richie pulls the door closed behind them, and suddenly Eddie realises he’s once again blindly followed someone towards an unknown, surprisingly sinister destination. When he turns, Richie is sending him a lurish grin. “Wait, where are we?” 

“Wild West World staging-area-slash-locker-room,” Richie announces in a different, louder, showman voice. He gestures grandly to the dim, filthy room. Thin rectangular windows line the upper portions of the walls, the glass so grimy that the blazing sunshine outside barely pushes through. Rows of benches and pegs take up most of the space, some draped in various cowboy costume pieces that must belong to other staff members. There’s a tiled back room that Eddie can see a snick of light coming out of, where he supposes the showers are. Richie pulls the t-shirt kerchief from around his neck. “You cool to hang here for a minute? I’m gonna hop in the shower.”

“You _do_ actually have my bike in your car, don’t you?” Eddie enquires, a smidge unnerved. 

Something about this room is eerie. Or perhaps it’s just being in a concealed space, alone, with Richie. Not that Richie is the slightest bit scary, but given Eddie’s tumultuous and no doubt hormone-fuelled reaction to the mere sight of him, it’s nerve-wracking to be anywhere near him without anyone else around. Just because Eddie’s not got the slightest idea what his dumb, pubescent body might make him _do_. Not noticing any of Eddie’s discomfort, Richie’s already heading towards the shower room, shrugging his waistcoat off his shoulders as he goes and tossing it to one of the benches. Eddie swallows hard, pulling his eyes away. 

“Nah,” Richie replies breezily, “sold it on the black market already.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but takes this to mean yes, the bike is here, so he perches on one of the benches to wait. “Don’t suppose you wanna join me?” Richie asks, tossing a final leer over his bare shoulder. 

“I’d rather you shot me with the pellet gun,” Eddie says, steadfastly not looking in that direction. “Hurry up.”

“Worth a shot,” Richie says, then there’s the unmistakable spraying noise of water hitting ceramic, and above it, Richie’s tuneless voice singing that same Dua Lipa song that had been playing in his car yesterday. 

Eddie sighs, looking around himself with unveiled distaste. He keeps his hands away from the surfaces, clasped tightly in his lap. Against the wall are stacks of lockers, most of which are graffiti’d with the names of various past Turtle Cove workers, along with their comments. 

_‘Lisa and Fred Turtle Crew ‘08’_

_‘Soledad thinks Turtles SUCK’_

_‘Turtle Cove is Purgatory and I’m On The Way to Hell - Paul F.’_

_‘Whats with all the turtles? - R. T.’_

Eddie snorts at this last one. There’s no mistaking who wrote it. It’s fresh, like it was only scribbled there a day or so ago. He gets up from the bench to study it closer; this must be Richie’s locker, then. He runs his fingers over the metal door, tracing the bumpy numbers of the lock combination. 

“Wouldn’t touch that if you’re not so keen on germs,” Richie says suddenly from his rear; Eddie jumps, not having noticed the shower turning off. “There’s fifty years of past Cowpeople grime on that thing. Can almost guarantee it’s never been scrubbed.” 

When Eddie turns, a little embarrassed at having been caught fingering Richie’s locker, he’s met with the sight of Richie wet, his jeans pulled back on, but undone at the crotch, the two panels flapping wide. He’s wearing boxers, thankfully, but there’s still a vast amount of pelvic skin on show, pale from being shielded from the sun, a strip of fine hair trailing down from his belly button. Eddie's mouth fills with saliva that he has to promptly swallow down; the noise is loud, but Richie doesn't appear to notice, thank God.

“You don’t clean your locker?” Eddie croaks.

Richie laughs, then seems to realise that Eddie isn’t joking. He strides over to the locker beside which he stands, all glistening skin and dripping curls, so Eddie makes the sensible decision to move, swiftly, away. 

“You’re kind of a freak, y’know that?” 

“I’ve been told,” Eddie grumbles, and fumbles with the zipper of his belt bag with shaky hands, rooting inside for his sanitiser.

“Hey, I’m all over it,” Richie says with a shrug, turning his combination this way and that, then pulling the locker open. “Nothin’ better than a guy who’s not afraid to get a li’l freaky.” He shoots Eddie a benevolent smile, as if he’s just bestowed the highest praise, rather than used a word to describe Eddie that he vividly remembers being hurled at him in various creative insults since he was eight years old. “So,” Richie continues, oblivious, “like I said, you look real adorable, Eds, but are you ever gonna gimme my hat back?” 

Richie dithers and pontificates getting ready to leave, stretching the time he has alone with Eddie by launching into new Voices, telling wild anecdotes that can’t possibly be true (no way can he have swallowed _sixteen_ plastic army men when he was seven on a dare), and, of course, shamelessly, confidently flirting at Eddie while he shoves his work uniform into a duffel, and pulls on a god awful Hawaiian shirt. He also pops out his contacts and slides on a pair of glasses, which is an intriguing and unexpected development in the collation of information about Richie Tozier. The thin wire frames make him look completely different, as if they complete his face somehow. It’s not fair that he should somehow look better with glasses, but unfortunately for Eddie’s mounting admiration for the face in front of him, that seems to be the case.

“I know, I know,” Richie says when he catches Eddie staring, “the geek chic thing is a little two-thousand-and-late, but my eyeballs can only take so much straining in the hot TC sunshine. Gonna get the lasering done soon. One laser gun installed in each eye, so I can zap my enemies like Spiderman.”

“Superman,” Eddie corrects, arms folded. 

Richie closes his locker, at last. “Yeah. Right! That’s what I meant.”

He picks up his bag and begins to head for the door, one hand on Eddie’s back. It’s only there briefly, like a guide, but Eddie can still feel the hot pressure of it once he takes it away. Together, they walk side by side through the deserted park towards the entrance, Richie stopping every once in a while to pick up a stray piece of litter and make a show of dunking it into a nearby bin. He keeps up the inane chatter the whole time, Eddie barely needing to interject; he seems light and carefree in a way that Eddie envies, and is actually making him feel sort of grumpy. Eddie doesn’t remember the last time he felt so buoyant. Richie bounces around on the balls of his feet, flitting around Eddie like a firefly. 

“How the hell do you have so much energy?” Eddie snaps once he can’t take another second. 

Richie stops at Eddie’s side, slowing to his pace, chuckling. He shoves his hands into his deep pockets. “I’ve generally got a lot of energy to burn,” he confesses. “Though usually seven hours prancing about in costumes around this place burns it off. I guess having you here’s making me a li’l nutty. Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“It’s… fine.” Eddie studies the side of his face, wondering if Richie’s actually upset. He's got such a naturally sunny disposition that it's difficult to tell. “I don’t care. Dance the lambada if you want. I just don’t get it. I’m exhausted and all I’ve done is watch you.” 

“The secret is medically prescribed speed,” Richie stage whispers, winking. “Plus, well, I haven’t been laid in a while.” 

Eddie almost trips over his own feet. “I don’t wanna hear that!” 

Richie’s laughter peals out, flooding the whole empty park. It would almost definitely be spooky to be here alone, but Richie’s raw, illuminated vivacity seems to chase the shadows from every barren, creaking ride, every locked-up booth and games stall. His smile is big and goofy, and as he gets used to it being directed his way, Eddie finds himself matching it more often than he’d like to admit. As they approach the entrance, Richie slots the sealed envelope containing the day's takings through a slot in the ticket booth and locks it afterwards. Then he leaps right over the turnstile with his huge frog legs. 

“Staff get priority parking,” Richie tells him as Eddie inches himself through after. “S’just over here.” 

Eddie spots Richie’s dilapidated car immediately, alone in the staff section. There are a fair few cars still dotted around, including Bev’s truck way in the distance; a lot of people use this place as a regular car park when the park’s closed. Richie’s already tugging open the door of the boot, yanking Eddie’s bike out and lifting it easily to the ground. 

“I placed a small tracker on her, but you won’t even notice it,” Richie says. “S’just so I can stalk you now and then, no biggie.” 

“Gee, thanks. Can I have the lock back, too?” 

Richie whistles, clicking his tongue. “Oooh, now that’s a tall order, cutie. But I guess for you I could swing it.”

He ducks back into the boot, rummaging through piles of God knows what to find the bike lock, which he presents in both hands, like a trophy. Eddie takes it, trying not to let his eyes roll again, because he fears they’ll be lost in his skull at this point. 

“I can’t give you a lift home, gorgeous?” Richie asks, shifting seamlessly back into that low voice that feels as though he’s hooked his fingers into the pit of Eddie’s stomach and swept his organs clean away. He leans over the bike, one arm resting on the handlebar, pushing into Eddie’s space. “I know the way now. And you still need to make good on your promise to invite me up to your bedroom…”

“I never promised that,” Eddie snaps, snatching the bike out of Richie’s grasp. “And no, thank you, I’ll just end up leaving something else in your car.” 

“Your panties?” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says, and then has no idea how to part ways. 

He fidgets, both hands on his handlebars, trying to work out whether he should say thank you. He’s only retrieving his own property, after all. 

“You mind if I smoke this?” Richie asks suddenly, pulling a thinly rolled joint from his pocket. He doesn’t wait for a reply - a wise decision on his part, as Eddie has several long lectures stored up about the dangers of marijuana usage - and pulls open the driver’s side door, leaving it wide as he seats himself, one spidery leg extended to rest on the window ledge. “Feel free to hop in, if you wanna chill for a while,” Richie says, lips tight around the end of the joint. 

He brings the lighter to the end, sucking a few times to get it going, and Eddie finds himself leaning the bike against Richie’s car, the lock over one handlebar, and doing exactly that. Richie seems as surprised as Eddie is when he posits himself in the passenger seat, but sends him a pleased smile. The car is immediately pungent with the flowery smell of the marijuana smoke. Eddie keeps his own door wide too, trying not to think about the possibility of inhaling the secondhand smoke laced with narcotics, or the germs writhing about on Richie’s shitty vinyl seat covers. 

“You want?” Richie offers, holding out the joint to him. One eyebrow is peaked in thinly veiled curiosity.

Eddie would love to shock him, to take the joint and inhale long and deep, expertly dragging the toxic smoke and drug into his lungs, just to see the look on Richie’s face. But he doesn’t, of course. He’s never smoked anything, apart from one puff on the end of Bev’s menthol cigarette under (her) duress. It had been horrible and he’d felt nauseous for the rest of the day. He shakes his head politely, and Richie doesn’t laugh like Bev had, he just nods and takes another drag. 

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Eddie can’t help asking. 

He’s keeping an eye out for the mysterious ‘management’, given that they’re so close to the entrance of the park, and it's the end of the day, but there’s not a soul to be seen. There are no guests either, or passers by. It’s actually quite creepy how quickly the park had cleared out; Eddie hadn’t noticed it at the time, but now that he reflects on it, he can’t have been in that locker room longer than twenty minutes with Richie, and when they left they hadn’t seen anyone at all. 

“From who?” Richie asks, concisely summarising these thoughts. 

Eddie decides not to answer, and turns to look out of the door. There’s not much to see aside from acres of flat, grey concrete, marked with the faded white lines marking the parking bays. He sighs, letting the long breath out through his nose, and wonders what’s waiting for him back at home. A partially defrosted portion of stew and an evening watching game shows with his mom, probably. 

Richie reaches over with one hand, placing two fingers under the point of Eddie’s chin, and turns his head, gently, back towards him. “Y’know, you could do with letting loose a li’l, angelface.”

Of course, Eddie’s immediate instinct is to take offence. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The corner of Richie’s mouth quirks. He retracts his hand, going back to smoking. “You seem kinda blue, is all. Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t have to be sad.” 

Eddie shrugs, arms folding over his chest. “Bev already ragged on me about my RBF. That’s why she’s having the party. To cheer me up.” 

“Aw, you don’t have a resting bitch face, Eds,” Richie tries, but Eddie just sends him a withering look, making him laugh. “Okay, well maybe a little. But it’s cute. And a party’s a great idea. Booze, drunken teenagers, party games… you’ll be merrily hurling into a trashcan with the rest of them in no time.”

“How is that supposed to cheer me up, exactly?” 

“We could play seven minutes in Heaven?” 

“I think the age range of the party guests is a little above twelve to thirteen, actually.” 

“I meant just you and me,” Richie quips, so Eddie smacks him in the shoulder. “Hey!” Richie says, his laugh pouring out in a silvery smoke haze. He rubs his shoulder with the hand that holds the joint between two fingers. “Do it again, but this time call me a dirty slut.” 

“Ugh, you’re vile.”

Richie chuckles, then takes a long drag that seems to be extra pleasurable, judging from how his head lolls back against the seat rest. 

“What… does that feel like?” Eddie asks before he can help himself. 

Richie turns to him, his eyes lit-up behind the glasses. “Weed? It feels… kind of gloopy, I guess. Like someone’s poured syrup into the air.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“You wanna try it?” 

“I’m... I’m asthmatic?” Eddie says, eyes falling to the curl of smoke rising from the tip of the rollie. 

Understandably, Richie’s eyebrows knit together. “You don’t sound very sure about that.” 

“No,” Eddie agrees. He’s eyeing the joint thoughtfully now. “I guess I’m not.” 

He reaches out then before he can talk himself out of it, carefully plucking the joint from where it dangles loosely between Richie’s fingers. Richie watches him with quiet fascination, slumped into his seat. Eddie’s more scared of burning himself with the end than anything else, but he’s seen Bev smoke weed enough times to know what to do, so he lifts the end to his lips and inhales. 

Bev always rags on people about not taking it deeply into their lungs when she smokes weed with her friends. Apparently the high isn’t as potent if you don’t draw it all the way in, or so Bev says. With this in mind, Eddie takes this advice, and it immediately chokes him; his lungs seize up in protest at the sudden, violent change in the air they’ve received, and cough it out in a small fit. Richie sits up at once, taking the joint from Eddie before he can drop it onto his bare knees, and chucks it out of the car. He puts a hand on Eddie’s back, soothing and gentle; Eddie focuses on the feeling of it, trying not to let the tears leak out of his eyes. Eventually, it stops, his regular breath coming back to him, and Eddie slumps back into the seat, embarrassed. He traps Richie’s hand behind him, but Richie doesn’t seem bothered. 

“Fuck, that was dumb of me,” Richie says, unfathomably. 

“You?” Eddie croaks. 

“Yeah! Are you actually asthmatic? Jeez, what the hell was I thinking?” 

“Uh, no,” Eddie manages to say, although the words are lumpy and soft, like cotton candy in his mouth. “At least… I’m pretty sure I’m not…” 

Eddie lifts his right hand in front of his face, confused by the tingling pools in the well between each finger. Richie is saying something, maybe, to the left of him, but Eddie can’t hear it above the sound of his own concentration. A hand - different to his own, tingly hand - waves back and forth in front of his face. He turns, blearily, to see Richie smiling at him. 

“Earth to Eds,” he’s saying. 

“I’m on Earth,” Eddie asserts, though now that he says it he’s not so sure. He looks out of the windscreen; over the high fence of the park, a sign for the Turtle Coaster is visible: a painted turtle on rollerblades waving its flipper. “Richie, why _are_ there so many turtles?” 

Richie’s laughter is loud and resounding, like a gong struck through Eddie’s bones. He likes the vibration of it, likes how it tickles him. Richie’s hand is still stuck behind his back; Eddie can feel the fingers wiggling against his spine. 

“I dunno, Eds,” Richie says, far away, “I heard that there used to be some Native American legend about a turtle God or something around here. But it’s just a shitty marketing ploy, prob’ly.”

“Cynical,” Eddie remarks, though he’s sort of forgotten what the word means. He turns to Richie, who is looking back at Eddie as if he’s just won a raffle, and Eddie is his prize. “I don’t know what to do about Bev’s party,” Eddie whines, the thought striking him from nowhere. 

The worry behind his statement surges up from where it’s been buried, making him pout. Richie’s face melts into something that looks deeply affectionate, or perhaps very pitying, Eddie’s finding it hard to tell. He squints, trying to make his eyes focus, and Richie brings his knuckles up to graze Eddie’s cheek. 

“What don’t you know, sweetheart?” Richie asks softly. It’s a nice Voice. Much better than his other, louder, grating ones. 

“I have to find a way to get alcohol,” Eddie says, sighing loudly, despondently. “Bev won’t let me in without it.”

“I think she might make an exception for you, Eds,” Richie says, but Eddie just bats his hand away, huffing. 

“Uh, no, she _said._ You don’t get it, she’s stubborn. And I’m a loser.”

“What?” Richie laughs, which makes Eddie pout more. “Eds, you’re not a loser. You’re, like, the coolest, most interesting person I’ve met in this whole town.”

Eddie just snorts derisively at that. He realises that, somehow, in batting Richie’s hand away, he’s wound their fingers together, and is now playing with each one in turn. It’s a nice distraction though, so he doesn’t stop. 

“Why d’you act like you like me and stuff?” Eddie asks, broodingly. “You should be flirting with those girls. Not with me. You don’t know me.” 

“What girls?” Richie asks, confusedly. 

“You know,” Eddie says, gesturing vaguely around them, “all the girls. That call out to you. And get all shy around you. Like the girl you had your arm around. Until you ignored her. That was so rude.” 

It occurs to Eddie, as he’s rambling, letting words spill out of his mouth like water from a flowing faucet, that he feels quite good. Not the bubbly, overly happy emotion he’d been jealous of Richie exhibiting earlier, but a nice, mellow, contented buzz. He doesn’t feel anxious at all, aside from the one, singular concern about getting alcohol for Bev’s party. He’s not thinking about his mom, or his final grades, or the unsanitary state of this old, dirty car. He’s not thinking about how slotting his fingers between Richie’s could be construed, or whether he wants it to mean something. It’s a pleasant, warm feeling, like being rocked in a cradle as a child. 

Richie is speaking again, Eddie understands, spiralling back into the conversation. 

“...but I guess I shouldn’t really tell you all that, huh,” Richie says with a shaky laugh. “Wow, Eds, it’s only our second date and you’ve already got me reciting lines of poetic prose about the shape of your tush.” 

“I wasn’t listening,” Eddie confesses, truthfully. 

Richie laughs so hard at this that he falls back into his seat. “Ohh, fuck,” he groans. “Where the hell did you come from, man? I’m gonna fall so hard for you, _fuck_.” 

Eddie doesn’t know how to respond to such an absurd, not very funny joke, so he chooses instead to smack Richie in the shoulder again. “Your jokes aren’t very funny, and I don’t know why I keep getting into your car.” 

Richie looks at him like he’s just spouted a love confession. “I’m gonna help you get some booze for Bev’s party,” he says solemnly, then brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses Eddie’s knuckles. It takes Eddie by surprise, so he doesn’t immediately know how to react. “Gimme your phone for a sec.” 

Too astonished to refuse, Eddie hands over his old iPhone with its screen protector and plain, functional case. Richie’s phone rests precariously on his knee - a brand new iPhone 11+ with a splintered screen and a case sporting a pattern reminiscent of 90’s public bus seat carpeting. He opens Eddie’s phone, which has never had a passcode because Eddie is a loser with nothing remotely interesting on there, let alone any friends interested in looking for secrets, and does something Eddie can’t see. It happens so quickly that Eddie is a little sceptical he could have done anything at all. His fingers flick across the screen so fast that Eddie doubts he could have done any lasting damage. And then, Richie’s phone pings. He makes no move to answer it, simply handing Eddie’s phone back to him with a smile. 

“What’d you do?” Eddie asks, the words running into one another. 

Before Richie can reply, Bev’s face appears in the open doorway beside Eddie, her eyebrows up to her curly fringe. “Richie Tozier are you pushing drugs on my pure, innocent Eddie?” 

*

 **13:23pm  
** **hot guy with the huge dick  
** gonna pick u up at about 5:30  
if thts cool

 **13:24pm  
** **Eddie  
** What?? Who is this?

 **13:24pm  
** **hot guy with the huge dick  
** ur new daddy

 **13:26  
** **Eddie  
** Richie?

 **13:27  
** **hot guy with the huge dick  
** ur a regular detective 

**13:27  
** **hot guy with the huge dick  
** u gonna wait outside for me  
or shall i knock and finally  
meet the mysterious and  
alluring Mrs K

 **13:28  
** **Eddie  
** No.

 **13:29  
** **hot guy with the huge dick  
** why not?

 **13:30  
** **Eddie  
** Why would i just agree  
to u picking me up for an   
unarranged random drive to   
god knws where??!

 **13:33  
** **hot guy with the huge dick  
** cos we got a 3rd date kaspbrak

 **13:34  
** **Eddie  
** No we do not!!!!

 **13:35  
** **hot guy with the huge dick  
** see u at 5:30 xxx


	5. Chapter 5

Unfortunately, Richie was apparently not joking about turning up at half past five outside of Eddie’s house. Too terrified by the thought of Richie strolling up and knocking on the door if he ignored the threat, Eddie does in fact wait outside on his front porch. Only with the intention of yelling at Richie to leave, of course. Richie turns into Lobelia Avenue in his groaning car, a pop song blaring out of the open windows at a decibel not conducive to the idyllic, suburban calm that Eddie’s neighbours are used to. He runs full pelt towards Richie’s car, miming frantically for him to turn it down; Richie, however, seems to take Eddie’s gesturing and sprinting as a sign of greeting, and only waves back merrily before pulling the car over right outside Eddie’s house. 

“Hey!” he calls, beaming. 

Eddie stops, panting, at his window, one hand on the filthy ledge. “Turn that off!” he cries, and Richie turns the key in the ignition, silencing the beast. 

“Knew you’d be excited to see me,” Richie says, happily misreading Eddie’s entire expression. He’s wearing his glasses again, Eddie notes, trying to regain composure. “Now I know there’s a certain expectation on a third date, Eds, but I want you to know that I’m nothing but a gentleman. A simple, clothes-on reach-around will be perfectly acceptable- OW!”

Eddie does not apologise for smacking Richie in the back of the head. Instead, he says, “You have to get out of here before my mom sees you. She’s, like, a black belt in curtain twitching.”

“Only one way I’m vacating this prime parking spot, gorgeous,” Richie tells him in that fucking low, drawled voice. He holds Eddie’s eye as he pats the empty passenger seat. 

Eddie tries to hold his ground, to think of some scathing retort that will tell Richie where to go, but he’s too fearful of his mom looking out and seeing him talking to an older, scruffy-looking boy in a dirty car. He swallows his pride, sighing, and jogs around to the passenger door, which Richie leans over to open for him.

“Fine!” Eddie cries, once he’s seated beside Richie. “But this is not a date, let it be known that you’re blackmailing me into-”

“I get it, I get it!” Richie cries, cutting Eddie’s protests short. He reaches for his own door handle and makes to open it. “You need me to go ask your mom’s permission before I can take you out-”

Eddie dives over him to hold the door closed. He succeeds, but it does mean that he’s sort of draped over Richie’s lap. Richie blinks down at him, grinning, and Eddie retreats swiftly back to his side of the car. 

“Shut up and drive if you’re intent on kidnapping me, asshole.”

“You sure make it hard to do you a favour, Eds,” Richie says, chuckling, but he turns the key in the ignition, leaving Eddie to buckle himself in and ponder what the hell that’s supposed to mean. 

*

Richie drives them for about ten minutes through the residential streets of West Derry, taking the road that Eddie knows eventually leads to… nowhere. Or, miles of farmland, a few isolated houses, a woodland so overgrown and lacking footpaths that nobody ever goes in there, and, eventually, the quarry. He tries not to dwell on the reasoning for Richie’s chosen route, stubbornly refusing to ask where they’re going, as Richie likely wouldn’t tell him, and he’s decided to sulk anyway. Richie doesn’t seem to care; he switches on the radio and sings to annoying pop songs, occasionally interrupting himself to tell Eddie about something Mike said at lunch, or the Karen that accosted him at his booth today. 

He talks as though Eddie were responding, which could be infuriating, as Eddie might have gotten the sense that Richie never fucking listens to a word he says, but there’s something nervous and false about his barrage of constant chatter today. He keeps darting these worried looks Eddie’s way, and although it’s barely noticeable above his usual inane nonstop chatter and pep, Eddie can tell something’s off. 

Then, seemingly at random, Richie slows and takes a turn into a long driveway cut into a tall hedge. It’s so demurely signposted that Eddie wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he were by himself. Richie stops talking as the tyres crinkle the gravel of the long track. He turns up the radio, fingers tapping fast against the steering wheel - not the slightest bit on-beat. In the distance, there’s a huge set of black iron gates, the curlicue bars twisting in an ostentatious pattern. When Richie pulls the shitty car right up to them, so obviously designed to keep riff-raff like them out, Eddie is so nervous that he forgets he’s giving the cold shoulder. 

“What are we doing here?” he demands. “Back up! These people look Addams family rich. They’re probably spying on us through their security cameras right now.” 

Richie shoots Eddie a pitying smile. “Oh, Eds. How I wish I could let my loveable ruffian image charm you a little longer.” He rolls down the window then; it’s one of those old windows that needs to be actually wound down. He sticks his head out and punches a load of numbers into the keypad on the box beside the gate, then ducks back inside with a sigh. “Alas, you are about to bear witness to the real me. Please, reserve judgement until we blow this joint.”

To Eddie’s abject alarm, the gates actually begin to open, inwards, towards the house behind them, which is only just visible through the line of carefully arranged trees that have obviously been planted to obscure it. Richie drives them through without hesitation, his face grim, as though they’re entering a battlefield. 

Eddie fingers his seatbelt nervously. “What the fuck?” he whispers, eyes growing saucer-wide as the full outline of the house trickles into view. “How do you know the code to get into this place?” 

In front of the house is a big, oval-shaped courtyard, entirely covered in pale grey gravel. In the centre stands a big, white-stoned fountain complete with ugly cherub statues dancing and shooting water from their mouths. Eddie stares at it as Richie circles the car around, finding a place to pull up right beside a very shiny black porsche. He switches off the engine, and turns to look at Eddie. He seems to be gauging the reaction. 

“Home sweet home,” he says weakly, and dances his fingers like a poor showman. 

Eddie splutters in disbelief. “Oh, whatever. You expect me to believe you _live_ in this castle?” 

“It’s a manor house, technically,” Richie corrects, unbuckling Eddie’s seatbelt for him. “But yeah, I had the splendiferous fortune of growing up inside these drafty, spidery walls.”

Eddie looks out of his window at the squat grey stones piled together to make the walls of this enormous house, and thinks, uncomfortably, that any child would find the mere sight bleak and chilling. Let alone living in such an imposing place. 

He turns back to Richie, eyes narrowing. “Come on, Richie, quit pulling my leg. Who did you get the code off of? And who really lives here? Are we breaking in? Am I gonna get arrested?”

Richie just chuckles humourlessly, and opens his door. He walks swiftly around to open Eddie’s too, holding it wide until Eddie, not sure what else to do, reluctantly climbs out. He dithers, the balls of his worn sneakers crunching the gravel, looking from the house to Richie, trying to correlate them somehow. 

And the thing is… it’s not completely inconceivable, now that he really looks. Richie has a very good sense of how to project his scruffy, stoner look, but the details are off. His t-shirt is stupid - bright blue with a green and pink logo that reads ‘Slurm!’ - presumably some TV reference that Eddie is ignorant of. But the colours pop, and the material hasn’t frayed; it’s not even sun damaged, despite the bright, relentless summer days. His jeans, Eddie noticed before, are too big for his narrow hips, but there’s a little tag on the back pocket that Eddie can see reads ‘Levis’. Even Eddie knows that that’s an expensive brand. He’s wearing glasses, and now that they’re in the light, Eddie notices the lenses darkening to compensate - that light sensitive thing that he’s heard about, but never actually seen outside of adverts. 

He’s doing a great job at disguising all of these little clues - with the messy black painted nails, and the scuffed, falling apart Converses, and the little stud in his ear - but now, standing outside this mansion, the shine sparkles beneath the worn mask. 

“Come on, Rebel Without A Cause,” Richie says, inclining his head towards the big double doors cut below the pillared entrance. “Let’s find some booze in this mausoleum.” 

“What?!” Eddie squeaks, but scampers after him. 

If he’d had any lingering doubts about the truth of Richie’s claims, they’re all but extinguished by the confident sweeping way Richie pushes open the front door of the house and strides in. He throws his car keys onto a side table without looking to make sure it’s there, then toes off his shoes and walks into the middle of an enormous entrance hall that looks like something out of Hogwarts. Beyond Richie stands one of those forked staircases Eddie has seen in period dramas. One set of mahogany steps, lined with banisters, travels up to a landing where a big arched window lets a wash of light flood the room. From here, two more staircases split off, one on the left and one on the right, up to darkened corridors that Eddie assumes must lead to bedrooms or dressing rooms or the maid’s quarters or whatever rich people put upstairs. 

Eddie realises he is literally gawping, but he’s never been in a place so opulent in all his life. And he’s barely two inches inside the door. Richie is watching him carefully, arms wrapped around his middle, seeming very uncomfortable. Eddie forces himself to close his trap; he follows Richie’s example, removing his tattered shoes - embarrassingly shoddy leaned against the wainscotting - and padding over towards him. 

“This is your _house_?” 

“Cosy, right?” 

“What the…” Eddie shakes his head, swallowing the curse word. It would feel wrong to say it in this place. It’s like a damned cathedral. “Richie. Why on Earth are you working at Turtle Cove?”

Richie sighs, turning to head for a door to their left. To reach it they have to walk beneath one of the arms of the huge staircase, so Eddie cranes his neck to marvel at its underside; even the grooves of the stairs have been stencilled with beautiful patterns. 

“My dad’s a super duper hot shot lawyer,” Richie explains as they walk. “We get on just great. He loves having a bisexual burn out with ADHD for a son. And I love having a narcissistic, soulless, money-obsessed republican for a dad. This summer he told me I needed a job to ‘develop my business brain’, so I thought to myself, hmm, what can I do to show dear pops how dearly I value the hopes and dreams he has for me selling out to work in his evil, shit-on-the-poor law firm? And, lo and behold-!”

“America’s crappiest amusement park was hiring,” Eddie finishes for him. He’s reeling, close at Richie’s back while he leads them through a large, high-ceilinged room that Eddie supposes is some sort of guest parlour. It has fireplaces. _More than one_. “That’s actually kind of clever,” Eddie admits, trying not to let his awe shake his words, “you still did as he asked, so he can’t get mad. But if you wanted to piss him off, which I’m guessing was the intention, that’s pretty good.”

“Well, gee, thanks doll,” Richie says in a 50’s fop voice. 

Richie’s now squeezed behind what is quite clearly an old-fashioned, 50’s style liquor bar in the corner. Now that Richie’s drawn attention to the statement piece, Eddie notes how it ties the room’s decoration together - the chaise longue, the pea green sofas with their stilted legs, the white slatted room separator with its kitschy Japanese print. It’s a bit gaudy, to have this much thrown together to create such an obvious, glaring homage to the era, but Eddie has to admit that whoever designed the room certainly did their research. His mom has forced him to watch enough Douglas Sirk films to know that it’s accurate.

“So, sweetheart,” Richie calls to him, elbows on the bartop like he’s ready to shake them up a martini. “What’ll it be? You a rum gal, or shall I fix yer a spritzer?” 

“You want to drink right now?” Eddie asks, baffled. 

Richie laughs, one hand draped across his forehead. “Oh heavens no! Not at four minutes to six! What would our husbands say?” 

Eddie scowls at him, but moves closer to the bar anyway, feeling very uncomfortable standing in the middle of this pristine stage set in his faded shorts and socked feet. Richie follows Eddie with his eyes, like the sight of him here is the only thing worth looking at, which is madness, given that Eddie genuinely cannot control the direction of his own eyes. Every inch of this room has been given attention, Eddie realises. The walls have several framed photos of President Eisenhower and Elvis Presley. The TV cabinet has one of those genuine blocky television sets with the dials on the side. The books lining a floating shelf beside the first fireplace are things like Catcher in the Rye, and East of Eden - meandering, wacky novels popular in the 50’s after the war and depression. 

“Startin’ to feel like a desperate housewife yet?” Richie asks, startling Eddie out of his reverie. 

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie replies, more than a little creeped out. He forces himself to look back at Richie. That’s much less disconcerting. “What the hell is this room?”

“My mom,” Richie says as if that explains it, then ducks down to rummage amongst the clinking bottles Eddie can’t see beneath the bar. “She’s nutty about interior design. And I don’t just mean nutty like it’s her favourite hobby. She’s genuinely wacko. Gets way too into it, as you can see. She wanted to be a set designer once. I think this is her outlet for the lost dream.” 

“It’s very impressive,” Eddie says. His eyes fall on a grinning, toddler-size china doll with freckled cheeks and pigtails. “But creepy.” 

“You should see some of the guest rooms. One for each decade.”

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, still invisible behind the bar. Then, his head pops up, and he winks. “I’ll show you to the bedrooms sometime.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, instantly more relaxed by the familiar dumb flirting. “Thought you were doing a gentlemanly Bit.”

“Ah, shit, forgot,” Richie says, grinning. He stands, wonkily, and holds up a bottle of posh looking gin that’s about three-quarters full. “Prego!” Eddie just looks at him blankly. Richie tilts the bottle left and right, eyebrows raised. “For the party?” 

Suddenly, everything slots into place. The favour. The alcohol. Eddie’s pot-induced confession about his concern over lack of booze for Bev’s party. “Oh my God, is this what this whole thing has been about?”

“Duh, do you think I bring people here a lot, Eds? If peeps at T.C. knew I lived in a palace and had parents that wore Versace and drank champagne at dinner it would destroy my carefully collated cool, slacker reputation.” 

“Richie, I’m not stealing booze from your parents!” Eddie protests. “I don’t care how much you hate them.” 

“Woah, woah,” Richie says, hands held up, the gin in one of them, “let’s not go throwing that word around. Severely dislike, sure. Would happily steal alcohol from, definitely. But hate… nah. They’re just self-involved. Distant. Never knew how to handle a kid, and especially not a weird, troubled one like me.” 

Eddie chews on this, thoughtfully. The gin waves through the air with Richie’s gesticulating as he talks. There’s a heck of a lot in there. More than enough to placate Bev. “Have you taken their booze before?” 

“Sure,” Richie says, shrugging. “Booze, expensive knick-knacks, the occasional ride in dad’s sports cars. You name it, I’ve swiped it.”

“And… do you get in trouble?” 

Richie shrugs, coming out from behind the bar at last. “Rarely. They’re not very good at punishments. They like to tell me off sometimes, say I’m grounded or whatever, but they forget about it in a couple of days.”

“So it’s fair to say that they haven’t really had the intended effect of making you reflect on your actions and repent for your sins,” Eddie guesses. 

Richie winks, tossing the bottle between his big hands as he saunters back over. “My sins are in the hundreds of thousands at this point.” He leans over to rest his elbow on Eddie’s shoulder. He has to bend almost in half to reach, which Eddie snorts at, though his traitorous heart skips over itself when their bodies touch. “Wanna help me keep up my record?” 

Eddie leans towards him, smirking. It takes Richie by surprise, he can see it in the way his eyes flash behind his glasses; Eddie seizes the opportunity to wrap his fingers around the neck of the bottle and swipe it from Richie’s loosened grip. Then he takes a step backwards, making Richie’s arm slip from his shoulder. He stumbles, but Eddie turns away to study the label of the bottle, hiding the wild, electric thrill undulating through him at having made such a bold move. 

“No fair, Kaspbrak,” Richie complains. “Damned wily seductor.” 

“You had it coming,” Eddie tosses over his shoulder. “I think this is, like, expensive. Are you sure it’s okay to take it?”

“Baby, take anything you want,” Richie says earnestly when Eddie turns back to him. He’s leaning against the back of a green sofa. “My heart’s up for grabs too.” 

*

Eddie is sat on his bedroom floor, a pillow beneath him, and Richie II providing a wonderfully plush but firm back support. He’s watching a film that he’s seen many times before, but that he’d had an itch to put on when Richie dropped him home. 

Given that he had no bag with him when Richie blackmailed him into a hangout session, Eddie had been troubled by how to sneak the gin back into his house, but Richie offered to help. So Eddie rambled half-baked story to his mom about Deaniel, the kid from down the street, falling off his skateboard and Eddie needing to escort him home. She’d looked dubious, but swallowed the tall tale as it tripped off Eddie’s blackened tongue, oblivious that meanwhile Richie was scaling the side of her house, squeezing the gin bottle into the short gap of Eddie’s ajar window. He’d promised to Eddie that he wouldn’t actually break in, but Eddie’s heart still thundered in his chest when he was finally released from his interrogation to go upstairs and look. All was fine, the bottle gleaming on Eddie’s desk below the window, and Richie (I) was nowhere to be seen. 

An hour later, Eddie had received a text. 

**Trashmouth  
** richie II looks pretty comfy on your  
bed ;) x

So now, humiliated, Eddie has hauled the dumb turtle onto the floor to act as a sort of beanbag. It’s actually annoyingly comfortable. The movie’s getting to a slow bit, so Eddie reaches for his phone, studying the text Richie had sent again. Something about the wink, and the kiss, make Eddie’s stomach feel all swoopy, the same way it does on any of the age 12 and up rollercoasters at Turtle Cove. 

**Eddie  
** I pitied him spending every night on the  
floor. Let him rest on the bed while I was  
being kidnapped. 

He seriously debates the responding kiss, but fights against the urge. 

  
**Trashmouth  
** aww. poor guy. and to think he was  
hoping to be your date to bevs  
party :( x

 **Eddie  
** Richie II was hoping that?

 **Trashmouth  
** one of the richies… i forget  
which x

 **Eddie  
** Do people still bring dates to parties?

 **Trashmouth  
** idk probably not anymore

 **Trashmouth  
** we could bring back the trend?

 **Eddie  
** In your dreams, Tozier.

 **Trashmouth  
** oh definitely xxx

Eddie chooses not to respond to that. He lets his phone rest on his thigh while the movie plays with the volume turned down; it’s more of a visual piece anyway, in Eddie’s opinion. But his favourite scene is coming up, so he has to watch for it, because missing the heart-wrenching dialogue would be a crime. His phone vibrates against the bare skin of his leg.

 **Trashmouth  
** watcha doin? x

 **Eddie  
** Watching a movie.

 **Trashmouth  
** what movie? x

 **Eddie  
** Why?

 **Trashmouth  
** im bored x

 **Eddie  
** In that enormous house? Go fiddle  
with the bookshelves and find all the   
secret passages.

 **Trashmouth  
** found the last of them when i was   
ten. they dont go anywhere good.  
cmon tell me what ur watching -   
we can netflix party x

 **Eddie  
** This movie isn’t on Netflix.

 **Trashmouth  
** ….?

 **Eddie  
** It’s called My Own Private Idaho. It’s   
from the early 90s. You probably  
won't know it. 

**Trashmouth  
** eds what do u take me for?? keanu  
and river phoenix gettin it on?! i love  
that flick x

Eddie stares down at his phone for a good minute, too astounded to know how to respond straight away. He watches River on screen, how he throws un-innocent looks at Keanu across the dank, dilapidated squats of Portland, where they hole up together in the city’s underbelly. 

**Eddie  
** i dont think I know anyone else who’s  
seen it.

 **Trashmouth  
** hold up im sticking it on now 

**Eddie  
** You have the DVD?

 **Trashmouth  
** wtf kind of boomer shit is a dvd

 **Trashmouth  
** pirate bay dude x

 **Eddie  
** Oh. Im like half an hour in

 **Trashmouth  
** i’ll skip to where u are. whats  
the time stamp x

 **Eddie  
** 31.32

 **Trashmouth  
** neat! oh they’re gonna bang tht  
german guy in a sec right?

 **Eddie  
** How did I get into this situation?

 **Trashmouth  
** us watching art-porn together? x

 **Eddie  
**...Yes.

 **Trashmouth  
** i think the universe likes me today x


	6. Chapter 6

The day of the party, Eddie begins fretting from the moment he wakes up. He goes through his usual morning routine - a thorough, complex procedure that involves sixteen separate products and usually takes him around half an hour - in such a state of distraction that he shampoos his hair twice, and forgets to floss before rinsing with mouthwash, which throws off the whole process.  To keep his mind from dwelling on all the things that could go wrong at the party, Eddie asks his mom if there’s anything he can do for her. She gives him a load of chores, which he completes diligently, glad to be kept busy, but at 3 o’clock, when he’s back in front of her armchair for the sixth time asking for more tasks, she turns snappy with frustration. 

“Go and entertain yourself, Eddie!” she says, gesturing for him to get out of the way of the TV. “Mama’s watching her shows. Don’t you have a friend to play with?” 

This is an unusual thing for her to suggest, and Eddie knows, no matter his nerves, he should pounce on the opportunity. So, reluctantly, he says, “well, actually mommy, Beverly’s having a small gathering at her house tonight.”

“Beverly,” his mom repeats with a scoff. Her eyes don’t leave the screen though, and she’s not sounding as venomous as she usually does when Bev is brought up in conversation. “That girl is far too wild. It’s the fault of that incapable woman she lives with. Her and her  _ partner _ . Two women raising a child, honestly. And they wonder why she’s running about with no guidance - where’s the male influence? The father figure? She’s obviously crying out for-”

“Well, I don’t have a father figure either-”

“I don’t know _ what  _ those women think they’re playing it, I really don’t.” His mom sinks deeper into her chair, her interlaced fingers resting on her jutting stomach, satisfied with her own judgement. “If you’re going over there later, make sure you just be on your guard. We all know what young, unsupervised, rebellious teenage girls get up to with upstanding boys.”

Eddie’s eyes widen. Is that a statement of permission, tucked underneath all the insults? He’d thought he’d have to beg and plead, maybe even turn on the waterworks later, to get her to let him out for a few hours. His mind whirls - is it wiser to push his luck against this unusually lenient version of his mother, or not?

“It’s a sleepover,” Eddie says quickly. “The Marsh’s have a sofabed. And a guest room. A few of us are thinking of staying, if that’s okay.” 

“Have you packed your inhalers?” she asks, eyes narrowed. She doesn’t look happy exactly, but it’s also not a no. Eddie nods fervently, heart racing. “You ring me at ten o’clock, Eddie. I want to know you’re on your way to bed.”

“Yes, ma.” 

“And back first thing tomorrow, okay?” 

“Yep, of course.” 

“Give mommy a kiss then.” 

She tilts her cheek towards him, and he dutifully presses his lips against it, feeling as if he’s just stepped cleanly across the border with a pocketful of cocaine. He goes directly upstairs, walking briskly in case she changes her mind, and begins throwing things into an overnight bag. As he packs, he FaceTimes Bev, who answers on the eighth ring, just as Eddie is about to give up. 

“If you’re calling to tell me you can’t make it tonight, we’re not friends anymore,” Bev says from somewhere off-screen. 

Eddie’s screen is taken up mostly by the folds of Bev’s blood red duvet, decorated with various sketched illustrations of vulvas. He’s tried, in the past, to be as blasé over this pattern as Bev is, to show his support for her feminist attempt to erase the stigma through her bedclothes design, but in truth it does make him fairly uncomfortable to sleep in her bed, covered in vaginas. But that’s probably more to do with the fact he’s almost certainly not interested in women sexually, let alone their sex organs. A garment of clothing is thrown onto the bed from afar, landing in a pile in front of her phone. 

“Actually,” Eddie replies, “I somehow convinced my mom to let me come over early, and stay the night.” 

Bev’s shriek of delight is promptly followed by her leaping onto the bed, half-dressed. She’s wearing a black faux leather skirt and skimpy bralette, but nothing else. Eddie makes a noise of distress, covering his eyes. 

“Oh, shut up,” Bev tells him, picking up the phone and grinning, “do you know what a privilege it is to see me in my underthings, Edward?”

“I didn’t ask to see! I’m not part of your harem!” 

“Take your hand away from your face, idiot, you can’t see the horrifying breasts anymore,” she says. 

Eddie splits apart his fingers to peek; she’s holding the phone up in front of her face now, so only her neck, shoulders, and head are visible. He breathes out a sigh, letting his hand fall. 

“If I come over now, will you put some clothes on?” 

“If you let me grill you for fashion advice, I’ll consider pulling on one of Ben’s t-shirts.”

“Deal,” Eddie says, zipping up his bag. He looks around his room for last minute things, and as his eyes skim over the gap beneath his bed, he remembers the gin. “Oh, shit. Almost forgot.” 

He takes Bev with him as he rummages for it. Bev whistles loudly when he pulls the bottle out, bringing the phone up close to her eyes to peer at the label. “Shit, Eddie! And here I thought you were gonna be a square and pussy out on the booze rule. Where’d you get that?”

“I have my sources,” Eddie mumbles, angling the phone away from his blushing face while he shoves the bottle deep into the bottom of his bag. “Okay, I’ll be over in ten alright?” 

“Pick me up an ice pop on your way,” Bev tells him, then tosses her phone back onto the bed. 

Eddie sighs at the sight of the labia filling his screen, hangs up, and slings his bag onto his arm. 

*

“Well, this is absolutely not going to work,” Bev tells him, then slurps noisily on the bright blue ice pop Eddie has brought her. 

A little of it drips onto the enormous Goonies t-shirt she’s wearing, which Eddie assumes must belong to Ben. She reaches out with her sticky fingers and pinches Eddie’s polo shirt, nose wrinkled. Eddie bats her hand away, annoyed.

“Don’t! You’ll stain it with chemical blueberry!” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Bev says, “you’re not wearing that to my party. Take it off.” 

“What? No,” Eddie says. “I can wear whatever I want.” 

“You look like a middle-aged father of four about to play a round of golf,” she says, rather meanly, Eddie thinks. He looks down at his peach polo shirt and cream shorts, not seeing anything particularly offensive. “C’mon, I’ll find you something sexier to wear.” 

“Bev, I’m not wearing girl clothes.”

She shoots him a fiery look, somewhat dampened by the blue of her lips. “Gender is a construct. Now try these on.” 

She throws a pair of skinny-legged black jeans onto the bed, so ripped and holey that it’s a wonder they’re still holding together. 

Eddie picks them up at arms length. “You can’t be serious.” 

“You never show off that perfect peach butt of yours. Those jeans are super tight.” 

She’s finished the popsicle now, and places the stick down on top of her chest of drawers while she rummages inside. Horrified, Eddie walks over to pick it up and throw it in the bin. He finds his sanitiser in the outer pocket of his bag to get rid of the residue from his fingers. 

“Please tell me you’ve decided to heed my advice to let loose tonight,” Bev begs, watching him out of the corner of her eye. The t-shirt she’s wearing drowns her, but as she bends over to look in her drawer, a flash of lacy panties assault Eddie’s eye, making him turn his back. “I swear to God, if you don’t get a li’l trashed and make out with someone at this party, there’s no hope for you.” 

Eddie’s cheeks flame; he’s glad Bev’s back is turned. “Make out with someone? I’ve never even done that. Apart from that time you pinned me to the floor and kissed me when we were eleven.”

“Exactly!” Bev pulls out a thin, wispy white t-shirt with pastel flowers embroidered in random curling patterns over one shoulder. “This is your chance to experiment! Rack up those make out stats.”

“I don’t have anyone to make out with,” Eddie says weakly as Bev pushes the flowery shirt into his hands. 

Bev raises an eyebrow that makes his stomach lurch. “You know I invited the Turtle Cove people, right?” 

“What’s that got to do with anything?!”

“Nothing,” Bev replies, grinning. She piles the jeans on top of the t-shirt, then throws a pair of pale blue socks with a cloud pattern on top. “Go try these on, loser. I’m gonna yank that stick outta your ass before summer ends if it’s the last thing I do.” 

*

Infuriatingly, Bev seems to think that preparing for a party involves minimal effort, and these preparations can all be done five minutes prior to the start time. So, inevitably, it’s Eddie that’s rushing around at 9:15, pouring packets of crisps into paper bowls, digging in the airing cupboard for plastic tablecloths to protect the tables, setting old mugs out on the patio as makeshift ashtrays.  Bev blares music up in her bedroom, getting dressed and applying makeup, not the slightest bit concerned that it’s fifteen minutes into the party time and nobody is here, and nothing is ready.

“How were you planning on playing music down here?” Eddie calls up to her. 

Instead of replying, the music in her bedroom cuts off, abruptly, and then Bev appears on the landing, carrying a bluetooth speaker. She waggles it at him, but Eddie is too dumbfounded by her appearance to really notice. Bev has on a skin tight, black and white checkered romper with a zip that goes all the way down the front. Over it, she’s wearing a big black fluffy jacket that hangs off her pale shoulders. She’s teamed the striking outfit with chunky biker boots, black lipstick, and a lot of tangled chain link necklaces around her throat. 

“Whoa,” Eddie says as she descends the stairs. 

“Oh, shut up, Freddie Prinze Jr,” she says, eyes rolling back. But she looks pleased even so. 

With Bev’s help, things come together more quickly, though she does complain a few times that Eddie is being a control freak about the set up of her party. The first guests trickle in at about half past; mostly, they’re people Eddie vaguely recognises from school, but has no connection to, so he nods at them and continues unstacking solo cups, his mind helpfully chanting a repeated mantra of _‘this was a bad idea’_. Eventually, Mike turns up, and although Eddie doesn’t know him well, he’s so glad to see a friendly face that he beams and waves, so Mike strides over, looking impossibly handsome in his athletic, un-bloodied clothes. 

“Eddie!” Mike cries, pulling him into a half-hug. “How’ve you been? Wow, you look awesome! Are these real?”

Eddie blushes self-consciously, fingertips tracing the press-on flower tattoos Mike is gesturing towards along his collarbone. The t-shirt Bev gave him is wide around the collar, so hangs off his skinny shoulder, exposing a lot of clavicle. Bev had seen this as an opportunity for decoration. “Aha, no," Eddie replies, embarrasssed. "Bev attacked me with a sponge.” 

“Sounds like the kinda thing she’d do,” Mike says, grinning. “Hey, do you know if Bill’s coming tonight?” 

“Err, I think so.” 

“Cool!” The pause lulls, making Eddie wince. “I’m gonna go see if anyone else I know has turned up,” Mike says eventually, and Eddie nods, eyes casting down. “Wanna come?” 

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking up at him. “Err, okay. Yeah.” 

Mike nods, already sauntering towards the doorway of the kitchen. Things are a bit better then, at Mike’s confident side; he seems to have none of the inhibition Eddie has. He walks in between people’s conversations as if they’d be glad to have him interrupt, and, for the most part, they are. He throws arms around the shoulders of the most popular jocks, punching arms and tossing out inside jokes to people that Eddie’s not even sure he knows that well. Just watching him is beating Eddie’s anxiety back with a stick, so when Mike introduces him as ‘Eddie, Brave Slayer of The Neibolt’, Eddie feels like he can say hello and join in a bit. In the shadow of Mike’s big, sunny presence, Eddie’s meekness doesn’t seem so meek. 

He spots Ben after a while, in the corner with Bev and a couple of others, so Eddie excuses himself from Mike, who gives him a warm smile, and heads over. The once-over Ben gives him is enough to reignite the fears that his outfit is way too eccentric, but he follows it up with kind compliments in a typical Ben fashion. 

“Eddie! I barely recognised you! Look at those jeans!” 

Hands on Eddie’s shoulders, he twirls Eddie around for a 360 view. “They’re Bev’s,” Eddie admits as he swivels back around to look Ben in the eye. “She had to pull them up for me. They’re way too tight.” 

Ben laughs heartily, and Bev hits him in the arm. “Don’t tell people that, dumbass. How are you ever gonna get laid if you tell people I had to squeeze your ass into your jeans for you?”

“Whoa, you’re trying to get laid tonight, bud?” Ben asks, eyebrows, quite understandably, raised. 

“Bev is insisting I try to ‘let loose’,” Eddie says, finger quotations in full effect. 

“And have you even had a single drink?” Bev asks pointedly. Eddie’s gaze drops to the solo cup she’s holding, filled with some spirit-cola mix. “Come on, Eddie. You’re only eighteen once! Thanks to me, you look like a snack, so go find a hungry hottie.” 

Reluctantly, Eddie leaves them to go get a drink. On his way to the kitchen however, he bumps into Stan Uris of all people. He’s loitering beside Bev’s coffee table, where a few people are starting to roll up long, thin joints for smoking later on. Eddie has to do a double take seeing him here, but Stan looks up from where he’s kneeling, giving Eddie an unsure smile. 

He gets to his feet, awkwardly. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Stan,” Eddie blurts, astonished, “I didn’t know you knew Bev.” 

“Yeah, we’re in Home Ec together,” he says, nodding. 

He takes a sip of his drink - some kind of especially fragrant sparkling cider - and shifts from foot to foot. Something about the awkward silence, now unbearable after seeing how easily Mike had plucked conversation pieces from the air and shaped them into funny back-and-forths, spurs Eddie into breaking the tension.

“Hey, Stan, can I ask you something?” 

He looks surprised, but nods. “Go for it.”

“I just wondered… why we don’t hang out? Like, why aren’t we proper friends?” 

An uncomfortable look passes over Stan’s face; he takes another drink, avoiding Eddie’s eye. “Err, well…”

“It’s just that we’ve lived next door to each other for so long, and we always partner up for school stuff, and you seem great. I just… I guess I’m wondering why it never went any further.”

“Well, yeah,” Stan says, hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck, “I guess I just thought you weren’t really interested in being my friend, Eddie.” 

Sucker punched by this revelation, Eddie’s mouth falls open. “What?”

Stan fixes him with a curious look. “Well, whenever we have to hang out for projects or whatever, you always leave straight after we do the work. And you’ve never asked me to go to the movies, or over to your place, or anything like that.”

“That’s just because of my mom,” Eddie says quickly, flushing bright. “You’ve seen her, I’m sure. She hates it when I socialise with anyone but her. And she’d never let me have friends over to the house in case they tracked germs in. She’s, um. A lot.” 

“Yeah,” Stan says, chuckling. He gives Eddie a sympathetic look. “Must be hard work sometimes.” 

“Most of the time,” Eddie agrees. He looks into Stan’s calm, open face, wondering how he could have given such a dickish impression to someone so genuine and nice. “I’m sorry that I’ve made you think I didn’t wanna be friends with you. That’s not true at all. I can just be kind of… introverted. Another word for self-involved dick, some might say.” 

Stan laughs, shaking his head. “That’s not true. I’ve always liked you, y’know. You’ve got a sharp sense of humour. And you’re really articulate.” Eddie smiles, bashfully. “And I guess I haven’t made any special efforts to befriend you properly either.”

“We should hang out,” Eddie suggests, bolstered by the compliments. “For real. Without the excuse of some project.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool.” He quirks a smile. “Maybe at my house.”

Eddie laughs, nodding in agreement. “Probably for the best.” 

The next silence stretches, but this time Eddie doesn’t feel the awkwardness. The hubbub of chatter and laughter from people around them makes it feel normal, like a lull rather than a void they need to fill. They bob their heads to the song playing over Bev’s bluetooth speaker, and Eddie finds himself admiring Stan’s impressive head of curls. A thought strikes him then, and he decides to speak it into the fresh, clean slate of budding friendship they’ve created. 

“Hey, by the way, do you know Richie Tozier?” 

Stan nods as he takes his next gulp, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Does anyone not know Richie?” 

“He has good things to say about you,” Eddie remarks, which makes Stan glance away, pleased. 

“Is that why you wanna be friends now?” he asks, teasingly. “Jealous that Richie Tozier’s got something you’re missing?” 

“Yep, I just value Richie’s opinion so highly,” Eddie jokes, making Stan laugh. “So, like, what do you know about him?”

Stan shrugs, giving Eddie a brief, speculative once-over. Eddie blushes faintly, wondering what classically reserved Stan thinks of his heavily ripped jeans and off-the-shoulder top. “Annoying. Attention-whore. Class clown type. Super hilarious when he gets it right, extremely distasteful when he doesn’t.”

“Wow,” Eddie says, nodding in thought, “yeah, that’s… astute.”

“I have a knack for pinpointing people,” Stan says, like this is nothing. “Why’d you ask?”

“Oh, he’s… got a little thing for me.” Eddie tries to act casual about this, leaning his weight onto one hip, glancing around the room like he’s bored by the idea. In his chest, his heart hammers against his ribs, desperate for Stan’s response. 

“Yeah, you and half the people here, probably,” is Stan’s chuckled reply.

Eddie tries not to let the gut punch wind him too obviously. “Oh yeah? He’s… kind of a flirt, then? With everybody?”

“Not everybody,” Stan says, stone-faced. “Just those with a pulse.” 

It’s said so dryly that at first Eddie doesn’t realise it’s a joke. When his brain catches up, he forces out a snicker. “Right. Gotcha.” The nugget of disappointment from not being the sole capture of Richie’s attention, idiotic though it is, sits heavily in Eddie’s gut. “Um, I think I’m gonna go get a drink. I’m under strict instructions from Bev to ‘let loose’ tonight. If she finds me without some kind of alcohol in hand I’ll be for it.” 

“No worries,” Stan says, tilting his cup. 

He’s already sinking back to the floor into the gap he’d left between all the stoners, so Eddie lifts his hand in a vague wave, then pushes through the group of people that have sidled up behind them, heading towards the kitchen. He doesn’t get far. 

“Spagheddie!” 

_ Crap.  _

Eddie turns, pulling his arm free of the hand that’s grasped hold of it. Richie is dressed in loose black jeans and a block-patterned shirt that’s less hideous than some Eddie has seen him wear before. Which is the best compliment he can give it. 

“Richie,” Eddie says with a nod. 

Richie is not listening, though. He’s full on checking Eddie out - there’s no other way to describe the way his eyes rove over Eddie’s body, wide enough to drink in every inch of him. 

“Holy shit, Eds,” Richie says, then lets out a humiliating groan. “Are those jeans spray painted onto you? God, please turn around. I’m begging you.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie tells him, hoping he sounds more fierce than he feels, weakened by the way Richie is shamelessly gawping. “They’re Bev’s.” 

“These Bev’s too?” Richie asks lowly, stepping in closer so he can trace a finger over the tattoos on Eddie’s cheekbone. Bev is a menace with a sponge. “Lookin’ real sweet, Eds.” 

“Whereas you’ve decided to come dressed as a lumberjack clown,” Eddie says briskly, taking a step backwards and treading on someone’s toe. 

He apologises, cursing internally. He needs a fucking drink, Bev’s right. Like he’s sensed this, Richie looks down at Eddie’s empty hands and frowns. 

“Hey, no drink? Where’s the gin I gave you?” 

Eddie casts a quick furtive look around to make sure Bev hadn’t heard that. “I think it’s on the drinks table? I’m not sure.” 

“Oh shit, can’t leave it there,” Richie says, clicking his tongue. “You’ll never taste a drop. Different rules apply at parties. Anything left in a communal space is up for grabs. We’d better go rescue it before it’s used for body shots.”

Eddie’s sceptical that Bev’s party guests are inherent thieves, but nonetheless treads along behind Richie in his parting of the crowd, curiously watching him bestow high-fives and bro-hugs along the way. A few girls hug him too, kissing his cheeks and ruffling his unruly hair. He takes it all in his stride, promising catch-ups before the party ends, but his momentum never slows as he pushes past them. A few of the people that Richie interacts with flick their gazes to Eddie trailing along after him, but they just nod and smile, their eyes round and curious, like they’re trying to place him. 

“Ah, she’s untouched,” Richie declares when he reaches the table, swiping the gin bottle and holding it aloft. “An unpopped cherry, yours for the taking.” 

“Ew,” Eddie grouses, but accepts the bottle from him. Richie waits expectantly, but Eddie just hovers, not sure how to proceed. “Um, I’m not really sure what to, like, make. With this.” 

“Oh my sweet li’l angel,” Richie says, pulling Eddie forwards by the hand so sharply that he stumbles, ending up crushed into his chest. He’s warm and solid, and though Eddie feels kind of cross about the manhandling, he doesn’t struggle that hard. “You’re so pure. C’mon, follow me. I’ll make you a drink.” 

They head for the kitchen, Richie pulling Eddie along by the hand, as though he were a dog on a leash. The kitchen is completely rammed with people; Bev has always said something about people tending to migrate to the kitchen at a house party. They have to squeeze and mime their apologies to get through to Bev’s kitchen counter, but they manage in the end when a big, beefy guy Eddie thinks is called Fred Something-Or-Other spots Richie with a loud holler of delight, and shuffles he and his friends up to give him room. 

“Now then,” Richie says, taking a solo cup and the bottle of gin, then pouring a dribble in. “First, I give you the most classic of gin drinks to try.” He finds an open bottle of tonic water and one of the wedges of lime Eddie had cut up earlier, and pours both into the cup. “Bottoms up.” 

Eddie drinks warily, already hating the way the sparkles of fizz brush his nose. As soon as he swallows, he gags, shoving the cup back at Richie. “That is vile. It’s bitter and dry.”

Laughing, Richie holds out another cup for him, which he’d apparently prepared while Eddie was tasting the first. “Thought you might say that. G & T is a bit of an acquired taste. Try this.” 

This time, Eddie is much more cautious. He peers into the cup, seeing something hot pink inside. He wrinkles his nose. “What is it?” 

“It’s the blood of a small infant I murdered on the way here. Try it.” 

Thinking of Bev’s dark expression if he has to tell her he’s not drinking because he doesn’t like the taste of his own gin, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut against the inevitable wretched taste, and takes a gulp. To his surprise, a pleasant, tart sweetness spreads over his tongue. He opens one eye, then the other, met with Richie’s smug, grinning face. 

“Yum, right?” 

“This is… drinkable. Probably gonna rot my teeth out of my skull, but…”

“Nah, the alcohol will shrivel your liver before that happens. So you like it?” 

Eddie fidgets, sips some more. “It’s okay. What’s it called?”

He seems to consider this for a second, then shuffles closer to Eddie along the edge of the counter. “I call it an Angel’s Kiss. Sweetest, rarest treat on this Earth.” 

Eddie looks at his inviting expression over the rim of his plastic cup. He raises an eyebrow. “What are you angling at?” 

“Nothin’.” Richie smirks. “Angel.” 

Eddie swats him in the arm, the bubbles from the drink coursing through his body, making him feel strange and light. “Shut up,” he mumbles. 

“I gotta say, Eds,” Richie murmurs, his face very close now. Eddie can see flecks of gold in his irises - he’s not wearing his glasses today, and Eddie can’t decide if he looks better with or without. “I thought the shorts were sexy, but I’m about to have an aneurysm after seeing your ass in those jeans.” 

It’s inappropriate, and way too ballsy, but though the scathing retort forms in Eddie’s mind, it seems to have trouble working its way out of his mouth the way it usually might. Instead, he swallows, gaze caught on the jut of Richie’s lower lip, the tiny patch of hair beneath that he’s missed when shaving. 

“You wanna go-” Richie starts to ask, making Eddie’s heart lurch, but before he can finish, a girl’s voice shrieks his name. 

“Richie!!!” she yells; over the heads of some other kitchen-loiterers, a young woman in a leopard print slip dress waves manically at them. “Richie, get over here! We’re gonna play Truth or Dare!” 

With a quiet sigh, Richie leans away from Eddie, waving to the girl. “I’ll pass for this round, Mads.”

Eddie’s heart does a complex range of stunts then. Is Richie blowing off his friends to continue his chat-up attempt? 

“Nooo!” the girl -  _ Madison? _ \- cries, shoving past a few people in order to get over to them. Richie swears under his breath, though his grin stays in place. She reaches them, gaze barely skimming Eddie, and clutches Richie’s upper arms with her tapered nails. “Richie, c’mon, you know you’re the Dare King! We can’t play without you. Pleeeease?” 

She’s clearly had a few drinks already, Eddie notes, as she’s swaying a bit on the spot, her words loose and flowy, like she’s got little control over them. Richie is laughing awkwardly at her, but he nods, and Eddie’s stomach sinks. Then he mentally slaps himself. Richie is an infuriating, objectifying, gross rich kid with no redeeming qualities, he reminds his dumb, hormonal body. There is no reason to be upset by his departure. In fact, it’s a relief. 

“Can Eds play?” Richie asks Madison, much to Eddie’s horror. 

“Who?” Madison asks. 

Richie drapes his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him in. “This sex kitten right here.” 

“Oh,” Madison says, staring at Eddie as if he’s just appeared in a puff of smoke. “Uh, sure? You like Truth or Dare, kid?” 

“No,” Eddie states vehemently. He unwinds Richie’s arm, feeling hot and nervous at the thought of being dragged into a party game. “You go. It’s fine. I’ve gotta go find, um. Err.”

“Bev?” Richie suggests, and Eddie nods. 

“Yes. That’s right. I have to find her, so. Um. Go and play.”

Richie lets out a dramatic sigh, but Madison looks utterly delighted. “Fine, fine. I guess I can grace you T & D amateurs with my Royal presence for a round or two.” Madison laces her fingers into his, which strikes a baffling urge within Eddie to upturn his cup over her head. He resists, and Madison pulls Richie back towards the kitchen door. He turns to catch Eddie’s eye before he disappears. “We’re catching up later, angel!” 

*

Bev is sat outside on the patio with Bill, smoking. Well, she’s smoking. He’s watching her smoke with an expression similar to those saucer-eyed slow loris’ Eddie’s seen on YouTube. Perplexingly, Bill is in his Turtle Cove uniform, minus the tactless sombrero and stick-on moustache. He looks up when Eddie pushes open the door, and smiles. Bev tilts a stream of smoke at him, making Eddie swish his hand through the noxious air, grumbling. 

“Hey, Eddie,” Bill says while Eddie plucks his way around their jumbled legs to find a place to sit. It’s been forecast to rain, so the patio furniture is all folded up out of the way. The three of them sit against the low wall, bums on the wooden slatted floor. “You enjoying the party?” 

“He’s not doing as he’s told,” Bev says before Eddie can decide on the answer. “Bill, please tell Eddie to loosen the fuck up. He might listen to you.” 

Bill laughs. “I guess you could stand to let your hair down a bit, man.” 

“Oh great, ganging up on me now,” Eddie says, then, just to prove them wrong, tries to chug the remains of his delicious pink drink. Unfortunately, being a novice drinker, he chokes instead, and descends into a coughing fit until Bill pounds him on the back. “Ugh. Thanks.” 

Bev, however, is delighted. “That’s the spirit, honey! Go nuts. Chug that drink. Body shots. Keg stand!” 

“There’s no keg here,” Eddie points out. “I don’t even know where people our age get kegs, to be honest.” 

“Guess it’s body shots then, buddy,” Bill says, laughing. 

Eddie just holds his middle finger up, swirling the remains of his drink in the cup. Bev peers into it over his shoulder. “Whas’s that?” 

She sounds a bit tipsy. Plus she reeks of smoke. 

“I don’t know actually. It’s got gin in it.” 

She leans back to exchange an impressed look with Bill. “Fuck. Mystery drink? That’s a great start, Eddie. Keep it up. Now go mack on a stranger.” 

“No,” Eddie says, drawing his knees to his chest. “I’m not letting some strange person’s saliva into my mouth. They could be hosts to innumerable transmittable diseases.” 

“Hot,” Bill says, then tilts his head contemplatively. “Interesting phrasing. Kinda sounds as if you’re not up for a strange person swapping their spit with you, but…” his eyes slide to Eddie, narrowed and speculative. “Maybe you’d be okay with it if it were someone in particular?” 

“Cram your clever analysis of the English language Bill, I was just riffing,” Eddie snaps, though his cheeks are hot enough to keep the cool night at bay. 

He necks the last of his drink, managing to swallow without incident this time. 

“He’s hot for his stuffed turtle, right honey?” Bev asks, smirking. 

Again, Eddie lifts his middle finger, promptly deciding that, given Bev is prone to oversharing when pissed, he’d better make his hasty exit. “I’m going to get another…” Eddie frowns down at his cup. “Whatever this was.” 

“See you inside,” Bill says, chuckling, before he goes back to staring adoringly at Bev. 

Eddie sighs, hoisting himself up, and Bev catches his hand. “Hey. You look extremely sexy tonight.” Bill nods in fervent agreement, making Eddie’s cheeks dial up a few degrees more. “You could literally have your pick.” She peaks an eyebrow. “Keep that in mind when talking to… certain idiots.”

Eddie tries to rearrange his face into an expression that reads  _ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about _ ’, but it’s pointless. Bev knows the colour of his guts. The shade of his soul. There’s not a secret on this planet he could keep hidden from her. He hadn’t even needed to tell her he was into guys. He’s never told anyone at all, in fact. But she just talks about it with him like it’s obvious. To her, it probably is. 

“Don’t smoke,” Eddie tells her sternly, “you’ll get cancer and die.” 

“Love you too, honey.” 

*

“Richie, Truth or Dare?” 

“Oh, Truth.” 

“...”

“I’m fucking with you. Dare me your worst, baby.” 

Eddie, at the back of the room, nursing a gin and lemonade with a probably wildly off ratio of spirit to soda, watches the girl who had asked Richie - Karen Fortescue, the student body president - lean back onto her hands on Bev’s stained carpet, contemplating. 

“Little help here, guys?” she asks the circle, who all immediately begin debating the best dare to give Richie, the apparent long-term champion of the game. 

While Eddie watches, Stan sidles up beside him, leaning against the wall. “Thinking of playing next round?” 

“Fuck no,” Eddie answers. “I’m the quiet observer type.” 

“You ever seen Richie do this before?” Stan asks. “He’s never backed down on a dare, ever. Once he sat butt naked in the driver’s seat of Principal Graham’s car and waited for him until he opened the door.”

“No way,” Eddie scoffs, but in the back of his mind he recalls having heard this legend before on the grapevine of school gossip. He’d always assumed it was some football team prank. “Is he a lunatic?”

“Pretty much,” Stan says, then quietens as Karen holds her hand up for silence; much of the room are watching now, eager to hear the chosen dare. 

“Okay, Richie,” she says sweetly. He smiles back, just as syrupy, though there’s a competitive gleam in both their eyes. “I dare you to pierce your own ear.” 

Richie tips his head back to cackle. 

“They cannot be serious,” Eddie squeaks, pushing off the wall, suddenly panicked. “That’s so dangerous!” 

“Alright, who’s got a needle handy?” Richie asks, rising to his feet. 

“I’ll get Bev!” Karen shrieks excitedly, hurtling towards the kitchen. 

As a group, the Truth or Dare players migrate behind her in the same direction, jostling Richie and laughing, bubbly with excitement. Eddie watches them go, heart drumming in the hollow of his throat; Stan rests a hand on his shoulder, questioning. 

“You okay, Eddie?” 

“Yeah- um. No. I gotta… I’ll be right back.” Eddie steals away from him, shoving through the throng of people cluttering Bev’s living room. 

He makes it to the kitchen just as Bev emerges from the laundry room, brandishing a canvas pouch of sewing materials. She’s giggly and excitable, like the rest of them, mind too blurred by alcohol to see the danger. Eddie marches towards her, but she’s already tossed the pouch to Richie, over by the sink. 

“Bev!” Eddie cries, gripping her by the wrist. “What the fuck? He’s gonna get sepsis!” 

“Oh, relax, worrywart,” she says, laughing, “he’s not an idiot.” 

Eddie whirls to where Richie is examining a large needle in front of his nose while a bunch of starry-eyed entourage look on. He’s not sure he agrees with Bev’s assessment. 

“Here, use my earring!” Madison shouts; she’s sat on the counter beside Richie, her legs, orange with fake tan, swinging like a child. She reaches up and unscrews her gold hoop, then holds it out proudly. 

At the sight of Richie taking it from her, easily, angling her a casual smirk in thanks, Eddie’s resolve to stay out of things snaps clean in two. He releases Bev, shoves his drink into her hand, ignores her protests and stalks over to the moronic group of wannabe piercing technicians. Richie doesn’t spot him until he’s right up close, so Eddie uses the advantage of his surprise to snatch the earring and needle from his big dumb hand. 

“You’re gonna get an infection and die, you asshat,” Eddie cries, furious. 

A smile spreads over Richie’s face, so wide and bright it’s as if Eddie were serenading him instead of wringing him out to dry. “Aw, you lookin’ out for me, angel?” 

Eddie just scowls, turning to Madison, who is looking on with unconcealed derision. “Boil the kettle,” he snaps at her. “And someone get some paper towels.” 

Someone does procure some kitchen roll, and though Madison only scoffs at his command, Mike, who Eddie has only just noticed is part of this crowd, jumps to it. The roar of the kettle is good to focus on above the pounding of Eddie’s own heart while he prepares a sterilising station on the sticky, drink-spilled countertop as best he can. 

The others clamour for Richie’s attention while Eddie sets it all out, asking him how he’s planning to do it, whether he’s scared it will hurt, trying to drag a flirtatious comment out of him. But Eddie can feel how Richie’s eyes bore into him, barely listening to his gaggle of admirers. After a while, Richie hooks his chin over Eddie’s shoulder to see what he’s doing, and Eddie nearly drops the needle altogether.

“So hot when you get all concerned about me shoving things into my body,” he murmurs against Eddie’s ear. 

The shiver threatens to send telltale tremors through Eddie’s body, but he pushes against it, gripping the edge of the counter. “I’m trying to stop you getting a disgusting infection and losing an ear.” 

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, lips brushing Eddie’s earlobe. “It’s hot.” 

Eddie shoves him away, mostly because he feels so warm suddenly that he’s got the burnt taste of fever in his mouth. He finishes up, shakily, the sterilised needle and earring lying on several layers of clean kitchen roll. 

“Can Eddie do it?” Richie asks, leant casually against the oven. “He’ll take good care of me.” 

Eddie tries not to vomit at the idea of pushing a needle through actual human flesh. Luckily, Madison is infuriated by this suggestion. 

“No!” she cries, petulant. “The dare was that _you_ have to do it.” 

“Fine.” Richie sighs, like it’s nothing more than a mild inconvenience, then steps over to wash his hands in the sink. 

This little bit of foresight does reassure Eddie that he’s at least not a complete idiot. Then Richie shoots him a smirk, picks up the needle as if it were a pen for him to scrawl a note, and without preamble, shoves it through his ear. He aims for the spot in his lobe beside his existing earring; he must not have dithered, because it goes right through. He swears, loud, and someone, Mike maybe, hands him the gold hoop. 

Eddie is rapt by the sudden spectacle, fascination and horror warring to cancel each other out. He’s vaguely aware that people around him are cheering and laughing, telling Richie he’s the ‘King of Dares’ or whatever. But Eddie only sees the rivulet of blood oozing from the newly made hole, and the winces of pain on Richie’s face as he replaces the thick needle with the golden hoop. 

He sways, unsteady on his feet suddenly, and tastes something like metal in the air. He hears Richie say his name, sharp and concerned. Then, everything goes black. 

*

When Eddie comes round, he’s laid on his back on Bev’s kitchen table, a damp cushion behind his head. “Wha…” he croaks, trying to sit up, but a strong hand presses into his chest, holding him down. 

“Whoa there, gorgeous.” It’s unmistakably Richie’s voice. Eddie turns his head to look at him. He’s sat on one of the kitchen chairs, smiling wide. A gold hoop, crusted with blood, dangles from his left ear. “Take it sleazy for a minute. You full on swooned at the sight of my new swag.” 

He flicks the earring, which obviously hurts him, judging by the wince. Eddie rolls his eyes at both Richie and his own ridiculous reaction. 

“Oh, God. I fainted? I’m so embarrassing.” 

As his brain slowly rouses from its brief shut down, the sounds of the party filter back in; the music and chatter is continuing as normal. Eddie lifts his head a little to look around the kitchen. Everyone is still chatting, laughing, drinking, as if nothing at all had occurred. The only difference is the sound of rain pelting the windows above the music. A few disgruntled, mildly damp smokers are hovering by the door to the patio, forced inside by the downpour. Eddie lets his head fall back against the pillow. He smells rainwater and mildew, and frowns. 

“Is this one of the patio furniture cushions?” 

“Yeah,” Richie tells him with a chuckle. “We had to think fast when you zonked out like that.” 

It occurs to Eddie then, that Richie is holding his hand. He flexes his fingers experimentally, and Richie quickly lets go, as if he’s only just remembered he’s holding on. Before Eddie can question it, Bev walks over, loudly telling party folk to move aside because she’s tending to her ‘pussy of a best friend’. 

“Here,” she declares, holding out a pint glass of water over Eddie’s chest, “don’t say I don’t take care of you.” 

Eddie struggles to sit up again, and this time Richie helps him, a hand between his shoulder blades, steady and firm. Eddie could lean back into that hand, he’s sure, and Richie would hold him upright. He resists the urge, taking the water with a nod. 

“Thanks.” He takes a long drink, forcing himself to swallow half the glass. 

“Who’d have thought you’d be such a drama queen,” Bev says, kissing him on the head. “You went full on Wendy Williams. I thought Richie was gonna ascend to the astral plane when he had you in his arms like some fourteenth century maiden.” 

Eddie looks up from the glass, first at Bev, then at Richie. “Err… in his arms?” 

Richie, for once, looks vaguely embarrassed, but he plays it off with a laugh. “Someone had to scoop you up from the floor, angel. You’re lucky you weigh as much as a graham cracker. Even with my blood loss I was able to lift you to safety with my huge muscles.” 

Eddie snorts at that, but feels a tingling all over his body. The idea that Richie held him like that, carried him over here, is doing things to his nerves. He feels the imprints of his hands still upon him. He thinks that if he stripped off this stupid outfit he’d see the marks they’d left on his skin. 

“Yeah,” Bev drawls, “because your heroic act of clutching Eddie to your chest was all about his safety.” 

“Don’t make me come at you with my new embroidery skills, Marsh.” 

She grins, sloppily, and finger guns them both. “You alright now, Eddie? Can I go back to my guests?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie tells her with an apologetic smile. “Sorry for the theatrics.”

“Hey, free party entertainment,” she says, shrugging, then blows him a kiss and heads back into the crowd. 

Eddie drinks a little more water, very aware of Richie’s intense stare from beside him. “So, what’s my reward? Y’know, for saving your life.”

Eddie snorts again, then shoves his glass at Richie while he swings his legs around, carefully testing out the ability to stand on solid ground again. “If anything I saved  _ your _ life,” Eddie shoots back, “as you would’ve definitely got sepsis if I hadn’t come over there.” 

“I was gonna sterilise the needle, you know,” Richie tells him, laughing. “But I did appreciate you swooping in to save me, I’ll be honest.” 

“Whatever,” Eddie grumbles, finding his footing. He feels odd, but not so odd that he’s going to pass out again. “I saved you, you saved me. We’re square.” 

“Alright, partner,” Richie says, offering his arm, “but let me get you another drink. For the shakes.” 

It’s only when Eddie studies his own hand that he realises he is, in fact, trembling. He hooks it around Richie’s arm before he can talk himself out of it, and lets Richie guide him to the counter where all the half full bottles of alcohol are. Someone has swiped a tea towel through the drops of blood that dripped from Richie’s ear to the counter to mop it up, which is sort of good, but Eddie wishes they would have done a better job as he can still see the remnants. A few people clap Eddie on the shoulder as he walks by, admiring his dramatic fainting as though it were a planned stunt. 

“Everyone’s a moron,” Eddie says while Richie prepares him a second ‘Angel’s Kiss’. 

“Yep!” Richie agrees merrily. “We’ve all got a touch of moron in us, sweet Eds. It’s what makes us fun at parties.” 

“Interesting philosophy.”

Richie hands him his drink, then leans in to talk lower, his face close, hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “Listen, gorgeous, I’d love to chat Socrates all night with you, but I’ve got about a minute left before Madison snips my balls off with a pair of sewing scissors. You wanna come play Truth or Dare?” 

“Absolutely not.”

Richie laughs; his breath smells sweet and smoky at once. Eddie tries not to be too obvious about breathing it in. “Okay, then I guess I’ll see you later?” 

He waits, as if he really wants Eddie to confirm. So Eddie just shrugs, blushes, and nods. Richie touches him on the cheek, knuckle tracing the dumb, watercolour flower tattoos, winks, and makes a hasty exit from the kitchen. 


	7. Chapter 7

At ten o'clock, Eddie's phone trills an alarm to call his mother, which leads to fifteen gruelling minutes hiding from the noise in Bev's laundry room while Sonia Kaspbrak wails warnings of wily temptresses and peer pressuring youths into his ear. Once he finally manages to hang up, the second Angel’s Kiss Richie made him goes down a little too easily, and then Eddie finds himself on his fourth drink of the night - another gin and lemonade - before eleven. Bev finds him talking animatedly about the new Star Wars film with Ben, who seems confused but pleased to have Eddie in conversation. 

“Hey, faves,” she says, pushing her lips to Ben’s flushed cheek, “I have to pee. Come with me, Eddie.”

“What-” Eddie starts to say, but she’s already yanking him away by the loose collar of his t-shirt. 

She takes him to the upstairs bathroom, the off-limits one, which Eddie is glad about. He hadn’t really noticed that he needed to pee as well until now, and he doesn’t fancy queuing for the downstairs bathroom now that he’s aware of his full bladder. Bev is nothing but committed to their firm, unbreakable best friendship, so she unzips the front of her romper the moment Eddie slides the bolt across the door, not even slightly bothered by Eddie’s shrieks of protest. He turns away from her while she shimmies out of it and sits on the toilet. 

“Put your drink down while you pee, you’re so gross,” Eddie tells her. 

“Yes, mom,” she replies, but doesn’t actually put the drink down as far as Eddie can hear. “So, I’m kinda drunk, but I think I’ve thought of a way to solve my two-boyfriend problem and I need your sensible Eddie Advice.” 

“You’re talking about Bill and Ben?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re your boyfriends now?” 

“Not yet,” Bev says impatiently, “I’ve been keeping them both at bay while I decide who I like better.”

“What! And you invited them both here tonight?”

“Yeah, it’s cool, they don’t really know each other. Anyway,” Bev continues, like this is all reasonable, “my idea is: I’m gonna ask if they wanna be a throuple.” 

Eddie turns to face her right as she’s zipping back up. “Oh, God. You’re really drunk aren’t you?” 

“Yeah. But I think it could work! And it would mean I don’t have to choose. Because they're both so hot. It's hard.”

“Doesn’t everybody have to like everybody in a throuple?” Eddie asks, and gestures for Bev to move aside so he can pee. 

She doesn’t seem to feel the need to turn away while he unzips, but Eddie is used to her intrusiveness at this point. So he tries his best to ignore it. 

“You mean I should try and make them make out or something first?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying at all-” 

“That’s a great idea! I’ll get a game of Spin the Bottle going. Ooh, or Seven Minutes in Heaven.” 

“Great,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. 

He finishes peeing and flushes, then goes to wash his hands. Bev sips her drink thoughtfully, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. “You wanna play Seven Minutes? I’ll get Richie to join in.”

Eddie fakes a retch. “I’m good, thanks.” 

“You can admit he’s hot now, right?” Bev persists. “You should’ve seen him when he picked you up from the floor and carried you to the table. It was like something out of a movie! Madison looked like she was gonna shit diamonds. She’s telling everyone she’s hell bent on banging him tonight.” 

“She is?” Eddie doesn’t manage to stop himself asking. Something tight, like a wide belt, cinches around his chest. 

Bev shoots him a smirk. “Honey, if you showed that boy the slightest hint that you’re into him, he’d happily throw Madison McCarthy off a bridge.” 

Eddie frowns at the confusing image. “Why would he do that?” 

“Oh my God,” she says, exasperated. “Richie is, like, _hardcore_ into you. If you wanna fool around with a hot, popular fuckboy, he’s your golden ticket.” 

“That’s what _you_ want me to do. Anyway, I hate him,” Eddie protests, trying to wriggle out from where she has his stomach pressed against the sink. “He’s obnoxious. And- and-” 

“Eddieeee,” she whines, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her black lipstick has worn off in the middle of her lips, creating a possibly even cooler look of a thick black outline around a snatch of pink. “C’mon, time’s a tickin’ and you’re not loosened yet." She pinches his taut shoulder. "See? Still as tight as Madison’s carbon-compressing asshole. ” 

She pokes him in the ribs, making him squeak, so he flicks his wet hands at her. “I helped someone pierce their ear with a sewing needle!”

“And fainted, you little wuss,” Bev counters. He turns towards her, still backed against the sink. She’s small, but he’s smaller, and way less imposing. “I expect you to do at least one dumb, reckless thing tonight. Or I’m not talking to you for a week.”

“Right, sure,” Eddie says sarcastically, though a spike of anxiety pierces him. “‘Cause you’re so good at the silent treatment.” 

“Eddie!” 

“Okay! Jeez, I’ll think of something, alright?” 

“Recklessness report on my desk first thing tomorrow, Kaspbrak.” 

“Whatever,” Eddie says, snatching up his drink again, “go back to your three-way.” 

“Throuple!” she corrects, but she’s sated, and yanks open the bathroom door.

*

An hour passes, Eddie pleasantly buzzed, his usual vice-grip of anxiety having loosened to more of a gentle hold. He talks to Stan a lot, finding that, as Richie had said, he’s funny and dry, offering a hilarious running commentary on the idiots of the party. A game of Seven Minutes in Heaven does happen, led by Bev, who is trying her absolute hardest to push her two nearly-boyfriends into the linen closet together. They are understandably very confused by her efforts, but Eddie can see them slowly surrendering to the inevitability of her persistence, exchanging worried, resigned looks. Eddie and Stan are watching the game from the couch, giggling about the ridiculousness of it all, and then Madison stands up and declares it's her turn. She spins the beer bottle in the middle of the circle, and it lands on none other than her conquest of the night. Richie gives her a sloppy grin, getting to his feet. 

“Are we allowed to do foot stuff?” he asks the general circle as Madison triumphantly holds out her hand to him. 

Bev lifts her eyes to catch Eddie’s, worriedly. He tries to look unaffected, but he can feel how the drink has floated his emotions to the surface, and is sure they’re written all over his pinched face. 

“Wait!” Bev cries, stopping the babbling around the circle. Madison shoots her an irritated look. “The bottle’s pointing between two people,” Bev declares, gesturing. “Spin again, Mads.”

“Bev!” Madison cries, affronted, but Richie is already sinking back down, telling Madison that her 'trickery has not worked to sully his chastity this time'. 

She scowls, but takes her seat again, and spins the bottle a second time. It lands on Theo Cormorant, who springs up eagerly, and practically drags Madison towards the closet. 

Later, when the game is over, Eddie’s on his way back from the kitchen with his fifth - and final, he tells himself - drink to find Stan, or Bev, or someone. The sight of Richie on the couch, however, with Madison McCarthy straddling his lap, is enough to halt him in his half-hearted search. Richie looks as though he’s been pinned there, as if Madison, like the leopard she's borrowed her look from, had seen him alone, vulnerable, and pounced. But his hands are on her waist, and he’s smirking up at her, so he can’t be that unhappy about the arrangement. 

Eddie only realises he’s squeezing his cup too hard when lemonade dribbles all over his hand. Madison’s drink, in its classic red solo cup, is balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa beside the two of them. Once again, the mad but overwhelming urge to knock it over her strikes Eddie like a bullet to his chest. He goes to swallow the impulse, and then remembers Bev’s angry command that he do _something_ reckless tonight. He's a little tipsy, so the voice of reason that might usually drown out Bev's not-so-reasonable voice is muffled and quiet - easy to ignore. Before Eddie knows it, he's taking a last, bolstering sip of gin, then shoving his cup into someone's hand and brushing past the couch. Richie catches his eye, just for a second, just as Eddie’s hand flicks out, destabling the cup, drenching poor Madison’s thighs in the unmistakeable coconut and caramel smell of Malibu and cola, as well as a fair patch of Richie’s crotch. 

“Fuck!” Madison shouts, leaping out of Richie’s lap. “What the hell, Edgar!” 

“It’s Eddie,” Richie corrects, but Eddie barely hears, because he’s barreling through the crowd back towards the kitchen, heart pounding so hard he can barely hear his own thoughts over its deafening drum. He makes it to the patio door, pushing through it into the night air; no one is out here even though it’s stopped raining, but only just, so everything is slick and earthen-smelling. _What has he done?_ He’s only a few paces from the door when he hears it open again, a burst of party chatter leaking out before it swings shut. “Eddie,” Richie calls, making him whirl around, “what the fuck, dude?” 

“It was an accident!” Eddie insists, feeling cornered and skittish, eyes flicking towards the patio steps, wondering if he could make a run for it. 

Richie holds up his hands, taking a step towards him. The stupid gold hoop glints in the weak patio light. “Err, hate to play the contrary canary, but that was not an accident. I saw you pre-empt the attack, Eds.” 

“Yeah, well,” Eddie says, mind whirling; his heart is so fucking loud. If only it would shut up a minute he could maybe think of a sensible excuse. Instead, he shouts, “She was gonna kiss you!” 

Richie raises an eyebrow. His back is to the light coming from the house, so Eddie can only see the features of his face in cut shadows, hollowing his cheeks and making his eyes darker, more intense. 

“Okay… so she deserved a rum and coke bath? What, were you trying to save her from my cooties?” 

Eddie just shrugs, arms folding over his chest, looking steadfastly at the wet planks of the patio floor. 

“Why do you care if I kiss Madison, Eds?” Richie persists, his voice lower now, cautious. As if Eddie really were a scared animal, poised to flee. 

“I don’t.”

“Right… it’s just that when you cruelly dunked her in her own drink it kinda seemed like you might’ve been trying to throw a spanner in the macking session-”

“Because you should only wanna kiss me!” The words spray out before Eddie can wrangle them under control. 

Richie’s head jerks back a smidge, like Eddie actually has sprayed him.

His smile forms slowly, dreadfully, so wide and delighted that Eddie's fingers twitch, itching to smack it off. “Um, come again?” 

“That’s- that’s not what I meant,” Eddie says quickly, holding up a hand when Richie steps closer. His heart is gonna barrel straight out of his chest at this rate. Projectile out of him Alien-style and splat against the patio door. “I’m… I’m drunk, I…” 

It’s absolutely no use though. Richie has caught the scent of his weakness like a wolf smelling blood; he crowds closer, until the middle of Eddie’s back is pressing against the wet, rough edge of the patio wall. 

“You want me to kiss you, Eds?” Richie asks, voice an octave lower than it had been moments ago. The low, rasping drag of it is winding knots into Eddie’s insides. He grips the edge of the wall so he doesn’t do something mortifying, like slip to the ground when his knees inevitably give way. “‘Cause I gotta be totally honest, I don’t give a shit about Madison McCarthy. It’s you I want.”

As firmly as he can, given that he’s shaking like a leaf - it’s cold out here, after the rainfall, despite Richie’s furnace-hot body pressing into him - Eddie places a hand on the centre of Richie’s chest, keeping him at bay. 

“Seemed like you wanted her,” Eddie manages, and Richie groans, head tipping forwards; his long hair falls across his eyes, and Eddie badly wants to sweep it away, so he does. 

“Eddie,” Richie growls, leaning into Eddie’s touch, “if I’d known I had a hope in hell of getting my hands on you tonight, I’d have tipped her disgusting Malibu on her myself for getting in the way.” 

Richie’s aforementioned hands, mischievous and wandering, have settled themselves on Eddie’s hips, where the tight waistband of his jeans is cutting into his skin. Richie finds the billowy hem of his t-shirt, inching his fingers beneath to hook through his belt loops. Eddie’s crumbling resistance loses the battle against his desire. He lets a soft whimper escape, and watches the sound of it ignite sparks in Richie’s wide pupils. Richie’s inhibitions are, apparently, a lot less resilient than Eddie’s, because he can’t seem to help himself chasing that sound with the press of his lips. His mouth is impossibly warm as it skims Eddie’s, teeth capturing his lower lip softly, briefly; lightning pulses zing up and down Eddie's inner thighs. 

“Fuck, sorry,” Richie whispers, pulling away, “is this- do you want this? Are you into this, or-?”

At the sound of the question, so ludicrous in light of Eddie’s clear burning, desperate need for more, Eddie feels his impulsivity, chained up in the back of his mind for so long, break free and lunge forwards. He reaches up, winds his arms around Richie’s neck and pulls him down, no idea what he’s doing, but knowing that he has to connect their lips again lest he turn feral for the want of it. 

Richie moans into his mouth, tongue sweeping over Eddie’s lip, which seems like it would be disgusting, but actually has the effect of making Eddie want to plunge his own tongue into Richie’s mouth as well. He doesn’t, too afraid of grossing Richie out, but he does copy Richie’s action, licking over the jut of his plump lip. Richie’s hands tighten on his hips, then slide around to his ass and squeeze; a jolt of unexpected pleasure shoots through Eddie when this happens, and then he’s being lifted up, seated on the wall. Richie fits himself between Eddie’s legs, pressing in closer now that they’re the same height, kissing Eddie so deeply that he’d fear he might fall off the wall into the flowerbeds, if Richie wasn’t holding him so tightly. 

“Fuck,” Eddie mumbles, the word lost into the meeting of their mouths. 

He didn’t mean to let it slip, honestly, but his brain is overheating from the scorching hot bolts of electricity firing through him; he’s never felt anything like this. This kind of burning, overpowering want, just from the touch of another person - he’d thought such things were the work of exaggerated fiction. He feels dizzy with the discovery of his own libido, like he needs to grip Richie’s terrible shirt with all his strength or he’ll pass out, or explode, or something. Just when he’s sure he’s at the precipice of this joyride, Richie’s lips drag lower, pressing insistently along his jaw, then down to his neck. Eddie has roughly two seconds to catch up with what’s happening, and then Richie is sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin of his throat, sucking so hard that Eddie’s toes curl. He’s vaguely aware, in the midst of all this, that he’s hard, getting harder, and that Richie is so snugly pressed against him that he’s sure to feel it if he hasn’t already. But Eddie doesn’t care, can’t care, not when Richie’s mouth feels so good against him. He tugs Richie back by the hair on the back of his head and pushes their mouths together again, propelled by his own powerful need. 

When Richie finally, finally draws back to catch his breath, a good fifteen minutes must have passed. Eddie’s bum aches where Richie’s hands are gripping him so hard, which he seems to realise in the pause, because he unfurls his fingers, a flash of guilt crossing his features. Eddie swallows hard, barely able to look him in the eye. 

“Well shit, Eds,” Richie murmurs, then kisses him again, chaste and quick this time. “I was not expecting that.” 

For a moment, the most Eddie can do is breathe. He can feel how hard he’s flushing, but hopefully the darkness masks it some. Instead of the witty retort he wishes he could make, what comes out is:

“Is it always like this?” 

Richie’s next breath catches; Eddie is close enough to hear how it sticks in his throat. He looks at Eddie for a long moment, and then shakes his head. “No. It’s not.” 

Eddie turns his face away. He’d hoped for a different answer, but somehow this is not a surprise to hear. If everyone felt this maddening intensity when they made out with random people, nobody would get anything done. This feeling coursing through him now has got to be that fireworks and fairy dust bollocks Eddie has heard dopey people wax on about, but never believed could truly exist. _Fuck._ Now what is he supposed to do with the information that Richie Fucking Tozier is, for some infuriating reason, possibly the only person on the planet that can drive him this crazy? The one that the universe has chosen to align his soul with or whatever wild astrological nonsense is stirring up all these sensations?

Richie makes a noise in the back of his throat then, pulling Eddie’s attention back to the present situation. He’s still got his hands on Eddie’s hips, the thumbs grazing the waistband below his flimsy t-shirt. It’s slowly driving Eddie a little nuts. 

“God, fuck. Look at you,” Richie says, eyes wide black holes, “please let me take you upstairs.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. His thumb passes back and forth across the hairs on the back of Richie’s neck, trying to think while the cacophony of his own heartbeat is drowning out all logic. Before he can say anything, they both hear the shrill, unmistakable voice of their mutual friend shouting Eddie’s name from inside. 

“Bev,” Eddie whispers, suddenly remembering where he is. The seat of his pants is soaked from the damp wall, he realises, coming back to himself. “Fuck. I can’t- I gotta-” 

He pushes Richie backwards, gently, and he steps away without resistance. Eddie shoots him an apologetic look as he scrambles off the wall, the torn-up folds of his wrecked mind slowly gluing back together as Bev’s hollering continues from indoors. 

“Oh, God, she’s probably really drunk,” Eddie says, skin prickling all over. “I gotta go inside,” he tells Richie, who nods in a pained sort of way. “S-sorry. Um. I… yeah. See you in there.” 

Before any response can spill from Richie’s kiss-bitten lips, Eddie bolts for the patio door.

*

Almost as soon as Eddie’s through the doorway, he crashes into Bev, her fluffy jacket long abandoned, a manic look in her eye. 

“Oh my God where've you _been_?!” she cries, clearly a lot drunker than she had been last time Eddie saw her. She pauses, briefly, to squint at Eddie’s no doubt dishevelled appearance. “Wait, s'riously, where _have_ you been?” She yanks his wide collar aside. “Is th't a fuckin' hickey?!” 

“No!” Eddie cries, slapping her hand away, though he spreads his hand over his neck in an attempt to hide the evidence. Fucking Richie - couldn’t he have aimed a little lower, at least? “It’s just a bruise. I was… fighting.”

“Fighting?!” she repeats, shrieking with laughter. “Oh, Eds. Could you at least come up with a b'lievable lie?” 

“What do you want?” Eddie demands crossly. 

Behind him, he hears the patio door opening again, and his stomach does an impressive and biologically impossible somersault. He forces himself not to turn around, to focus instead on Bev’s drunken rambling. 

“...but iss impossible! They won’ stop! They’re in th'closet right now, freely explorin' their sex-oo-walities without me! ’ve created a sexy cliché!” 

“Wait, are you talking about Bill and Ben?” asks Eddie, lurching back into the conversation with a start. 

She sighs impatiently, nodding. “My matchmakin' skills are tooooo 'mazing. Wanted them t'fuck each other, but me _as well_ , damn it.” 

“Bev, they’re both obviously crazily into you,” Eddie tells her dismissively, distracted by the sound of Richie’s name falling from the lips of seemingly everyone around them. “They’re probably only making out because you acted like you’d soak your panties to see it happen. Go jump in the closet with them if you don’t believe me.” 

Bev looks first affronted, her mouth falling open to argue, and then her brow furrows, and she deflates. “Huh. Y'think?” 

“Obviously,” Eddie says, and she smiles, taking his face in her hands. 

“I lurrve you Eddie Bear,” she says, mimicking his mom’s most hated pet name for him. She kisses him on the mouth, loud and smacking with a big “mwah!”. It’s a little surprising, but as it’s Drunk Bev, and it’s not the most destabilising kiss Eddie’s had this evening by a long way, he barely reacts. “Hmm,” she says, leaning back and licking her lips. “You taste weird. Like… pot. You been smoking pot again, you little stoner? Richie’s a bad influence on you.” 

She winks, turning to flee for the living room linen closet probably, and Eddie’s heart finally begins to settle back into a normal rhythm. 

“Proud'f you!” she calls over her shoulder, and Eddie tries to shrink himself between people as he sets out to find the person he'd randomly selected to look after his drink. 

*

Madison McCarthy is not at all happy with Richie, for reasons Eddie can’t hear. She’s got him backed into a corner of the living room, her sharply manicured finger jabbing into his chest as she yells. Someone’s put on the music video to ‘Gangham Style’ on Bev’s TV as some sort of unfunny ironic joke, and the volume is up so loud that Eddie can’t hear what Madison is saying. 

It’s easy to tell what Richie’s saying, though, because his mouth is firmly closed. Occasionally he nods, or shrugs, but mostly his eyes dart about looking for escape routes. After a minute or so, Richie interrupts her with a very short comment, inaudible to Eddie, but whatever he says makes her go absolutely feral. Mike, noticing the reddening of her eyes, the snakes sprouting from her curls, attempts to lunge between them, but it’s too late. Eddie’s halfway across the room before Madison lands her attack, but he doesn’t make it in time to stop it. 

“This is mine you piece of shit!” she shouts, and then her hand snatches the gold hoop dangling from Richie’s ear. She yanks, Richie yelps, and the earring breaks free of its clasp. Madison storms away, shoving past Eddie with a glower. “This was your only chance with me, fuckhead!” 

“Oh fuck, Richie!” Mike is saying, grabbing a throw blanket from the back of the sofa. “Shit, you’re bleeding a lot. What the hell did you say to her?!” 

“I told her I don’t wanna fuck her,” Richie groans out as Mike makes a pathetic attempt to staunch the bleeding with the bunched up material. “But I may have said it a little less tactfully.” 

“Get out of the way,” Eddie says to Mike calmly once he reaches the scene. His anxiety and tiredness have peaked so fucking hard that now he feels as though he’s in the eye of his own storm. The world has quietened, and this horrific nightmare scenario before him is just another problem that needs his help to be solved. “Let me see.”

Mike steps aside obediently, chucking the throw aside with a touch of embarrassment. Richie regards Eddie’s approach and subsequent study of the wound on his tip-toes with a sort of wonder, but Eddie doesn’t dwell. He grabs Richie’s hand and pulls him sharply through the crowds of idiots still doing that idiotic dance to a terrible song. 

“Where’re we going?” Richie asks blearily from behind him. 

Eddie doesn’t answer, just leads him out of the lounge, through the hallway, until they reach the stairs, cordoned off at the bottom with three of Bev’s studded belts. Eddie lifts the makeshift barrier for Richie and ushers him through. 

“C’mon, before you bleed all over the carpet.” 

“You takin’ me someplace we can talk alone, Mrs Robinson?” Richie asks, but he sounds slightly nervous. 

Eddie herds him up the stairs and into the secret bathroom, then shuts and locks the door behind them. “Sit,” he tells Richie, gesturing to the closed lid of the toilet. 

“Gotta say, this is not really how I pictured this going down, but whatever works for ya.” 

He sits down, and Eddie gets a proper look at him, ear crisped in brownish flakes, bright red drips all the way down one side of his awful shirt. A clump of his hair, right by his lobe, has matted together as well with the blood. Eddie swallows down the instinctive recoil at all the gore, and begins distracting himself by rifling through Bev’s medicine cabinet. 

“You are such an absolute moron,” Eddie scolds him as he studies the labels of various bottles and tubs. “Why would you tell one of the hottest girls at the party that you don’t want to have sex with her? Do you think girls like that are mentally stable? They’re made up of insecurity, sugary rum, and meanness.” 

Richie laughs, leaning back against the toilet, eyelids heavy. “Well when you put it like that, she sounds real fuckable.” 

Eddie’s mouth twitches; he lets their eyes meet, briefly. “You might have a point there.” 

“So, what's happening right now? You gonna nurse me back to health? Be my real guardian angel?” 

“I’m gonna patch up the gaping hole that bitch ripped into your ear so you don’t-”

“Get sepsis and die, yeah, yeah.” He yawns then, a weariness falling over his features. “Should’ve known better than to get my hopes up that you were dragging me up here for something fun after you sprinted away from me so fast.” 

Eddie feels himself pinkening. He ignores it, supplies collected, and brings the items over to Richie, setting them all on the shelf of the toilet before finding a clean flannel under the sink. He’s just using it to clean Richie’s ear with some warm water when he feels Richie’s hand scrunching in the front of his t-shirt. He pauses, distracted, and Richie takes the opportunity to yank him forwards. He falls into Richie’s lap, legs either side of his thighs, just like how Madison had sat, which is a frankly absurd position to be in under the circumstances. He sends Richie a ‘really?’ look, and struggles to get up again, but Richie’s hands on his waist hold him in place. 

“Stay,” Richie says, low and urgent, “you can reach better like this.” 

Eddie just sighs, surrendering, and gets back to what he was doing. He grabs some of the antiseptic and dabs it onto the flannel. “This is gonna sting.” 

“What- Ow! Fuck, you weren’t kidding.” Richie’s fingers curl tighter around his waist when Eddie applies the antiseptic, which has the unfortunate effect of rousing Eddie’s hard-on. He swallows, trying not to draw attention to it, but Richie almost definitely notices. When he checks Richie's expression, he's smirking. “Kiss it better?” 

Eddie dabs him with the antiseptic again in response, making him hiss. “Stop dicking around and let me do this.” 

Astonishingly, Richie does stop. For a few minutes, at least, he seems content to just loll back and watch, his hands ghosting over Eddie’s sides. Eddie’s sure he can feel, with those hands, how erratic his breathing is becoming, the quickening of his pulse, but he focuses hard on the gross ear in front of him, not on the proximity of their crotches, or the glazed, awestruck look in Richie’s eyes. 

Eddie’s just finishing up taping a piece of gauze to the earlobe when Richie says, out of the blue, “You’re so beautiful.” 

Eddie puts the rest of the tape and gauze down, fixing Richie with a raised eyebrow. “You’re so drunk.” 

Richie laughs, head tipping back. He shakes it left to right, slowly, then lets his eyes fall to Eddie’s. “I haven’t had a single drink tonight, Eds.” 

The statement short circuits Eddie’s brain. He can feel his amused smile faltering, then booting up into a baffled expression as his mind rewires itself. He tries to remember seeing Richie with a cup of his own at any point during the party, and can’t. He’d made Eddie a drink, twice, but he’d never made himself one. Which means that every word that came out of his mouth, every action that he made, both now and on the patio, were not born of alcohol-fuelled stupidity, but rather the rational decision-making lobe of a sober man’s brain. 

So, in light of this revelation, Eddie kisses him. He wants to make sure, to check he wasn’t imagining how amazing it felt, before, when his whole body lit up like those luminescent jellyfish he’s seen in nature documentaries. He wants to soak up the unfathomable idea that someone like Richie could possibly want him - plain, sulky, germ-phobic Eddie Kaspbrak - without the aid of beer goggles. That he would blow off hot, horny girls on the off chance that Eddie might want him back. Richie responds eagerly to the kiss, hands sliding all the way underneath the hem of Eddie’s shirt this time, smoothing up his bare back, then raking his nails down again in a way that has Eddie gasping. 

“I am a little stoned though,” he murmurs against Eddie's lips.

“Oh, for fuck’s-” Eddie starts to say, rearing away from him, but Richie’s just laughing, tugging him back in by his loose shirt. 

“Telling you in the interest of full disclosure!” he’s protesting, trying to kiss Eddie again. “I’ve got a high weed tolerance, I swear. You’re still the most perfect thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” 

Eddie surrenders, his resistance well and truly destroyed by the things Richie is saying, high or not. He dips his hand into Richie’s hair, which has the marvellous effect of making him shudder and lean backwards, so Eddie can kiss him more deeply, until he’s forgotten how to speak. Richie’s hands continue stroking up and down his back, occasionally digging his short nails in whenever Eddie shifts, or their tongues meet. Eddie’s hand meets the clump of dried blood in Richie’s hair and he seriously considers ignoring it, he’s that under the spell, but his gross-out trigger has been alerted, so he pulls back to inspect his fingers. 

When Richie speaks, lips slack and puffy, he sounds weakened. “How many drinks have you had tonight, angel?” 

“Err, four. Or five.” Eddie shrugs one shoulder like it’s no big deal. In truth, this is probably the tipsiest he’s ever been, but it doesn’t feel like he thought it would. The room isn’t spinning, and the words seem to be leaving his mouth without slurring together too much - there’s just a few more of them coming out than normal. “I’m not drunk,” he insists. “Why did you wanna take me upstairs before?” 

Richie groans, one trembling hand coming up to card through his own hair. “Fuck. Really, Eds?" He lets out a suffering sigh, squeezing Eddie's waist. "I wanted to take you upstairs ‘cause... I wanted to tuck you up into bed, obviously.” 

Eddie frowns, arms folding over his chest. “That’s not really why.”

“Uh huh, yes it was,” Richie insists, grinning. His hands have retreated from beneath Eddie’s t-shirt now. He wants to push them back in there again, so he can feel the skin-on-skin contact. So Richie can trace the paths where his fingernails had scratched either side of his spine. “I got this huge kink for putting adorable, but too-drunk boys safely to bed before they vomit or pass out.” He pauses. “Again.”

“But I’m not drunk-” 

“C’mon, gorgeous,” Richie says, voice dropping into that tone that Eddie cannot handle, “humour me?” 

So, reluctantly, Eddie allows Richie to stand them both up and walk them out of the bathroom, down towards Bev’s bedroom. The floor seems a bit unstable as Eddie navigates it, which is strange because he’s _not_ drunk - he feels totally fine, except maybe a bit tired and a lot like he wants Richie to lift him up with those broad hands of his, like he had when he'd hoisted Eddie onto the saddle for the tin can shooting game. 

Unfortunately, all ideas of touching or lifting or kissing Eddie seem to have vacated Richie’s mind entirely, because he’s now morphed into some sort of ridiculous night nurse, pulling back the covers of Bev’s bed, finding Eddie's overnight bag, filling a glass of water for him from the bathroom tap. He turns away while Eddie changes, which is confusing after everything that has just occurred. 

“Why’re you being a gentleman all of a sudden?” Eddie asks pointedly, shirt half off his head. 

“It’s a struggle,” Richie confesses, arms wrapped around his own waist, like he’s pinning them there to behave. “Hurry up, would’ja? I’m dangerously close to peeping.” 

Eddie sighs heavily, but strips off Bev’s clothes - the jeans take him at least a minute per leg - and pulls on the pyjamas he’d brought with him. 

“Okay,” Eddie grumbles, “I’m decent.” 

“A tragedy,” Richie replies, turning back towards him. He looks genuinely disappointed, which is even more confusing. Was this chivalry all a ruse? Was he actually expecting Eddie to have sprawled himself across the bed stark naked? Eddie’s inexperience is stifling sometimes. “Wow,” Richie says, clocking the new outfit. “Nice jim-jams.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, ears reddening. “I thought only Bev would see them,”

His pyjamas have comic book characters on them, so what? He’s an eighteen year old man who likes Marvel movies. So does nearly every other guy his own age that he knows. The pyjamas represent a rare stroke of genuine consideration on his mom’s part, because obviously she's the one that bought them for him. Nevertheless, it’s not the ideal look he would choose to project right now, to Richie Tozier, the wannabe comedian, and the guy he just made out with copiously. Twice. 

Richie has sidled closer, inspecting the superhero pattern with narrowed eyes. “Avengers, huh? Is that the one where the big green guy gets it on with the chick in the catsuit?”

“Supposedly,” Eddie replies, “although fans were rooting for her to bang the bow and arrow dude.” He studies Richie curiously. “Didn’t you say you liked comic books? That you had a huge collection?”

Richie busies himself with turning down the corner of the duvet. “Err. Maybe.” He sounds unusually awkward. “Honestly Eds,” his laugh is higher than normal, “I think I would’ve said anything to engage you in conversation.” 

Eddie has absolutely no idea how to respond to this wild remark, so he just follows Richie’s silent instruction to climb into the bed. Richie is grinning madly when he pulls the vulva-patterned covers up to Eddie's shoulders.

“Want a kiss goodnight?” 

“This is really weird,” Eddie says, though his tiredness is dragging his eyelids closed. “Are you gonna get in too?”

“Um, no.” Richie’s eyes dart around the room as he straightens up. “Think I’ll... I’ll just make myself a nice nest down here.” He pulls a few of Bev’s cushions onto the floor, and finds a fluffy blanket beneath the bed, which he lays over the top. “Curl up like your very own li’l bitch.”

He flops down onto the makeshift bed, reclined on his back, propped up on his elbows. He sends Eddie a grin, promptly followed by a yawn. 

“You’ll throw your freakishly long back out if you sleep there,” Eddie scolds. “Anyway, don’t you wanna go back to the party? I appreciate you putting me to bed, as Bev would have forced me to stay up till she passes out, but you don’t have to stay.”

“Meh, party’s boring without your cute little ass lurking around, keeping me on my toes.” Richie falls down onto the cushions, sighing. “Besides, I’m wiped. I was at work all day, and again in the morning.”

“Shit,” Eddie says sympathetically, rolling onto his side. “Sucks. Why don’t you get into the bed with me, then?” He blinks slowly, innocently. “You can get a good night’s sleep.”

“Eds, you’re killing me.” 

Eddie hides a smile in the pillow. “I can be good?”

“No, you can’t, and neither can I.” Richie sighs again, sounding a lot more distressed this time. “Besides, that’s Bev’s spot. She’d have absolutely no problem tipping me out in the middle of the night.” 

“She won’t be up for ages,” Eddie tries, but Richie only chuckles. 

“S’cool, I’ll just lie down here and pretend like I’m not so hard I can’t think straight,” Richie says, so nonchalant about the offered information that Eddie almost misses it. He replays what Richie said, and has to roll onto his back to prevent Richie catching sight of his furious blush. “This was a great party, angel. I know you’ll hate me again tomorrow, but I had a real good time.” 

“I don’t hate you,” Eddie says, troubled that Richie might really think this after what Stan had said, about him thinking Eddie didn’t want to be friends. 

When Eddie glances over the side of the bed, Richie’s eyes are closed, but he’s smiling. “Good to know. I’m gonna use that confession against you later.” 

“I think you’ve got a decent amount of evidence to the contrary if I try to argue that I hate you somewhere down the line.” 

Richie snorts. “Stop giving me ammunition, numb nuts.” 

“I kinda thought I’d hate this party. But, um. I didn’t. So thanks.” 

At first, Eddie thinks Richie might have fallen asleep, because it’s rare for him to go so long without speaking. Then, a hand snakes under the covers and laces itself into Eddie’s, squeezing once. Eddie squeezes back, thinking that then Richie will pull away, but he doesn’t, he just lets their joined hands rest, half hanging off the mattress. 

The only other person Eddie has held hands with apart from his mom is Bev, and she gets really sweaty hands, so Eddie usually barks at her about it and snatches his away. Richie’s hand, even beneath the covers, is dry and warm. His skin is not as soft as Eddie’s, but that’s hardly surprising, because even Eddie knows his moisturising goes a little overboard. The sanitiser dries out his skin, so he has to keep on top of it. Tentatively, Eddie tries stroking his thumb over the back of Richie’s knuckle, very light. In response, Richie breathes in deeply, letting it out long, faint and slow through his nose. Eddie’s not sure of course, but he thinks this might be the breath that carries Richie into dream. 


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning, Eddie wakes to Bev’s arm flung across his face. He pushes it off, horrified - who knows what she’s been doing with that hand - and sits up only to submerge his head into a thick cloud of hangover. He groans, tasting the filmy, bitter tang of his unwashed teeth and tongue. Why had he not brushed his teeth before bed? And then, the icy avalanche of his own misdeeds crashes over him. 

_Richie._

_The patio_.

_The bathroom._

_Richie putting him to bed_.

 _The hand-holding and the flirting and the incredibly moronic, smitten nonsense Eddie had spouted in his drunken exhaustion_.

Already buckling under the weight of it all, Eddie aims a panicked glance down beside the bed; Richie’s nest of cushions and blankets are still there - proof that he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. Richie, however, is absent. Eddie’s two immediate reactions of disappointment and relief vie for centre stage. He shoves them both down, turning back to study Beverly. She’s on her back, arms akimbo, wearing that Goonies t-shirt of Ben’s and probably not much else. The remnants of her black lipstick are smeared across her chin. 

He holds a hand in front of her mouth to check she’s actually alive. 

“Fuck off,” she croaks, making him jump. She bats his hand away, feebly. “Sleeping.” 

“Was Richie in here when you came to bed last night?” Eddie asks, and she groans loudly, then smacks him in the face with the back of her hand. She’s weak and tired, so it doesn’t hurt, but Eddie gets the message. “I’ll ask you later.” 

“Eddie, go downstairs if you’re gonna talk,” she mumbles, “I love you but I’m fucking exhausted.” 

“What I love about you is that you’re such a morning person,” Eddie tells her, then scrambles for his life out of the bed before she chokes him. “Want me to send up your boyfriends?” 

She holds up a middle finger high into the air, eyes still closed, and Eddie nods, then grabs his wash bag and heads for the bathroom. As Eddie vigorously scrubs the grime from his mouth with a toothbrush, his eyes wander to the toilet, where a roll of tape, gauze, and antiseptic are still laid out on the shelf. In the mirror, he watches his own flush bloom across his cheeks beneath the peeling tattoos, and shakes his head at his reflection. He spits out the toothpaste. 

After a scalding shower where he manages, with some vigorous sponge-work, to scrub the tattoos off his body, followed by a shortened version of his morning routine, Eddie feels slightly less like he’s going to die. Because he doesn’t drink much, hangovers don’t seem to knock him off his feet the way they do to Bev. Usually a strong cup of tea and lots of water is enough to chase away any headaches or nausea. So, summoning his courage after he’s snuck back into Bev’s room to dress, he heads in the direction of the kitchen. 

The smell of pancakes hits him from the top of the stairs. It’s not a scent that has ever appealed to Eddie in the past - eggy batter frying in oil - but now, his stomach growling for something greasy to soak up the leftover dregs of gin, it’s nothing less than heavenly. He follows the smell all the way to the kitchen, his feet moving faster than his brain can keep up with, so when he’s smacked with the sight of Richie at the stove messily flipping a pancake into the air, sending globs of batter flying, Eddie’s immediate reaction is to hurtle over and stop him. Too late, his panic button resets, and he remembers that Richie is, despite all evidence to the contrary, not an incompetent buffoon. Eddie’s errant hand however, has already clamped down on Richie’s pancake-flipping wrist; Richie looks down at it, amused. 

“Good morning. Eager for a Richie breakfast?”

Eddie retracts his hand, righting himself. “No. Sorry, I thought you were gonna burn yourself.” 

“Ah, the faith you have in me is truly astounding.” Richie, wearing his glasses this morning, gently flips the pancake over with a spatula. It becomes increasingly obvious, as the oil sizzles, that they are not alone in this kitchen. Eddie darts an embarrassed look towards the kitchen table he’d been briefly laid out on just last night, noting at least ten bleary-eyed, rumpled teenagers grouped around it, talking in low voices, a few paracetamol packets ripped open in their midst. “So, you want one, cutie? ‘Cause there’s a queue. But I’d think about bumping you up it.”

“What’s that gonna cost me?” Eddie grumbles, slumping against the counter. 

He feels exhausted again, perhaps from the receding adrenaline spike that attacked him when he saw Richie handling hot oil and a gas stove. He’s glad, in a way, that things are so normal between them after such an eventful evening, but there’s a definite sense of ‘elephant in the room’ going on here. Richie’s eyes don’t meet his, no matter how Eddie tries to catch them. 

“I’d settle for a coffee, if you know where Bev keeps it?” 

“Sure,” Eddie says. 

He’s so used to needing to funnel a pot of coffee into Bev’s mouth before she’ll be awake enough to hang out in the mornings, that making a cup in this kitchen is as easy as breathing. He does it without even thinking about it, adding milk and sugar before he realises that he hadn’t asked Richie how he takes it. 

“Oh,” Eddie says to himself, looking down at the cup. “Sorry, I made this for Bev on autopilot. I can make you another if you don’t like milk and sugar?”

“That’s great, Eds,” Richie tells him, and tosses over a quick smile, so brief Eddie could have missed it if he weren’t paying attention. But he is, for some reason, paying extra attention. Richie is being weird. He’s sure he’s not imagining it. The fact that Richie is acting in a strange way the morning after they’d hooked up at a party is doing violent, turbulent things Eddie’s fragile stomach, but he's trying very hard to remain composed in the face of it. “Thanks,” Richie says, taking the mug. He's careful not to let their fingers touch. 

“Are you…” Eddie starts to say, but loses his own momentum. 

Richie’s lips twitch, and he switches off the stove, sliding the pancake onto a plate. “Alright, Jake, come and get it you big lump.”

Jake Fulcher, an athletic kid with his hood cinched right around his tired face, rises from the table and collects the pancake with a nod. “Cheers, Rich. Hey, Eddie.” 

Eddie has to do a double take. He knows _of_ Jake, of course, but as far as he’s aware, they’ve never actually spoken. “Err. Hey.”

Jake lopes back over to the table; he sits beside Bill and Ben, who are sharing a pancake. Eddie watches them feed one another off their forks, fascinated.

Richie follows his gaze. “Did you know they both hooked up with Bev last night?” 

“She told me her plans. Didn’t know it actually worked.” Eddie just out his lower lip, impressed. 

“Surprised you didn’t wake up,” Richie comments, “they went at it pretty hard on the bed beside you.”

Eddie whirls to face him, mouth agape. “They… they didn’t…” 

Richie holds his blank expression for a few moments before dissolving into laughter. “No, man. They did it in the closet, I think. That’s what everyone says, anyway. I was… indisposed at the time.” 

“I recall,” Eddie says slowly, heart rate picking up. In the silence that follows, Richie slurps his coffee irritatingly while Eddie tries to summon what's left of his courage. He scrounges up enough of it to ask: “Do you regret… um. Missing out on seeing what went on in the closet?”

The look Richie fixes him with is one of pure astonishment. “Do I _regret-_? What the hell, Eds.” Richie laughs, a little bitterly perhaps. “I think maybe you were drunker than I thought, which is actually making me feel even worse.”

Eddie blanches; both of their eyes are fixed on the chattering group at the table rather than each other. Eddie had refused the pancake, but Richie is still whisking up more batter, taking pains over the measurements in these little china cups Bev’s aunt apparently owns. It could be that Richie is a particularly precise baker, but it’s more likely that he’s trying to keep his hands and eyes occupied, because this conversation is rapidly veering into uncomfortable territory. 

“Worse?” Eddie repeats, arms folding defensively. “How bad do you feel about it?”

“No, not-” Richie lets out a quiet sigh of exasperation. He puts down the bowl of batter. “C’mon, Eds. You were there too.” He’s murmuring now, playing with the whisk, stirring it gently through the thick gloop. “I _thoroughly_ enjoyed myself last night. In case that wasn't abundantly clear. But..." he sighs, shooting Eddie a guilty look. "...upon reflection, I was kind of an asshole. I shouldn’t have coaxed you into doing anything with me just ‘cause I’m hot for you. You were drunk, and Bev was pressuring you. You were kinda cornered. It wasn’t cool of me.” 

This assessment is so far out of Eddie’s perception of what happened that he has to take a moment to digest it. He blunders forward in the next moment, suddenly enraged that Richie's assessment of his behaviour last night is so short-sighted. He picks up a batter-covered spoon and whips it sharply through the air in front of Richie's face; globs of batter fly off, splattering across his glasses, cheeks, and a bit of his hair. 

“You’re a complete fucking moron if you think I didn’t want to do... _stuff_... just as bad as you did last night, drunk or not.” 

Wearing a very amused smile now, Richie reaches up to remove his smeared glasses, then turns his naked, crinkled eyes onto Eddie. “Just last night?” 

Eddie shoots him a glare, and something melts in the air between them, sizzling away in the oil with the batter, sparking the barbed dynamic of their unusual friendship back to normal levels. Richie wipes his face with a tea towel, then sets about making Eddie a pancake whether he likes it or not. He's still making a noticeable effort not to touch Eddie or go too far with his teasing, but apart from that he's relaxed a bit. Neither of them make further mention of the happenings between them last night. Richie drinks his coffee and tells some bad jokes. Eddie swallows down what he reluctantly admits is a hell of a pancake, and they go to join the others at the table. 

Mike is full of stories about his escapades with the Serrano twins during the party last night - two strikingly attractive Puerto Rican siblings that he’s been trying to get with for months, apparently. They'd turned up late, at around midnight, when Eddie was already in bed.

“I know I say I don’t care which one goes for me,” Mike tells his thoroughly entertained crowd, “but every time I think I’ve fallen madly for one, the other will throw a spanner in the works! Fabian and I were getting on great talking about his love of cooking, and I’m trying to build muscle so I thought, hey, he’s the one! But then Mya comes in with her aspirations to be a sports massage therapist! I mean, how’s a guy supposed to choose between that?” 

“You could solve your conundrum using the Bev method,” Richie suggests, nudging Ben and Bill with his elbow, "eh boys?"

Ben flushes bright red at once, but Bill remains relatively cool, lifting his middle finger to Richie without a word. Eddie has to cover his mouth with his hand to hide a giggle. He’s in the chair beside Richie, trying to figure out if it would be weird to lean back against the arm Richie’s laid across the back of his chair - so effortlessly casual that Eddie’s got no idea if it means anything. He’s about to just do it, meanings be damned, as he can always play it off by pretending he didn’t know the arm was there, but Richie suddenly yawns and stretches his arms up high, joints clicking in a nauseating way. 

“Right, dearest delinquents, unfortunately Bill, Mike and I must now love you and leave you,” he announces. 

Everyone turns to him, their faces drooping as they realise three of their favourite pals are exiting. Richie had timed his declaration well, right at the dwindle of Mike’s story so he didn’t interrupt anything, but still, the news noticeably sours the atmosphere. 

“Ah yes,” Mike sighs, looking at his watch. “Tis the call of the turtle I hear on the wind.” 

“I dunno how you stand being in that dump every day,” Jake says, shaking his head. 

“S’not so bad once you get used to the vomit smell,” Bill offers, and Ben makes a face that mirrors Eddie’s. 

“Plus, we get to freely admire our cutest customers from the privacy of our dark, dingy booths,” Richie says; he doesn’t look at Eddie while he says it, but Eddie’s still a degree warmer by the end of the sentence. “Come along then, fellow turtle-ees.”

Chairs scrape back, and a few of the others around the table start to talk about making a move as well. Richie is chatting to Mike whilst scraping his wild, unbrushed hair back into a stubby ponytail and securing it with a thin black band that Eddie had thought was a bracelet. The look is interesting. Particularly with the glasses. The kind of interesting that feels like Eddie maybe shouldn’t get up for a while. 

Richie shoots him a look at exactly the wrong moment; Eddie’s certain he caught him staring, but he only smiles. “Walk me to the door, Spagheds?” 

A few 'ooo-oooh' sounds are audible from the table, but Eddie chooses to ignore them, getting up on jelly-legs to follow Richie and the others towards the front door. Bill and Mike slip their shoes on and head straight out, theorising animatedly about the 'real' cause of a recently broken down ride. Bill's money is apparently on a Turtle Cove conspiracy to re-open the same ride as a 'new and improved' version to attract more customers. Mike has gone for the wackier theory that Turtle Cove requires a yearly child sacrifice in order to stay open given that it's so unbelievably shit, so management regularly 'fix' a ride to swallow a kid that won't be missed, and close it down for a week or two. They're still arguing about it by the time Richie's done up his laces. He lingers in the hallway with Eddie for a moment, carefully watching the other two trek out of earshot. 

“So," he says to Eddie, "you gonna come by and see me at the park anytime soon? There’s a Richie III in it for you if you play your cards right.” 

“Hell no,” Eddie says immediately. “Turtle Cove is a dystopian nightmare. And you need to stop giving the giant stuffed turtles away.” 

Richie laughs, quietly, and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He's building up to something, Eddie realises with a sudden flash of panic. He fights to remain where he is instead of turning and fleeing up the stairs to hide like his brain is telling him.

"Look, uh," Richie begins, fiddling with his belt loop, "I’m no good at being serious. If there’s a shiny puddle, you can guarantee I will shove my foot _deep_ into it. But, uh. I think you found the world’s most effective way of shutting up my dumb Trashmouth last night. So. If you ever wanna do that again, without all the drugs and alcohol… you know where I am.” He pauses, dragging his gaze over to Eddie’s from where it’s been pasted on the far wall. “Just uh... look for all the turtles.” 

Eddie snorts, cheeks aflame, arms wrapped around himself. “I’ll do that.”

“Yeah, like fuck you will, turtlephobe” Richie replies, laughing, but leans down to kiss Eddie's hot cheek, and slips out of the door. 

*

A few days later, at home, confined to his room for the next three years because his mom has tripled the tightness of her leash around his neck after he came home from Bev’s party with a hickey, Eddie has a lot of reflection time. He moves Richie II off his bed, permanently, too afraid of what might attack him in his dreams if he lets himself curl around the beast that sports such a significant name. Richie doesn’t text him, which Eddie is fine about, obviously. After all, Richie did explicitly say that Eddie should be the one to reach out if he were interested in pursuing… anything.

Which he _doesn’t_.

What happened at Bev’s was a wild, drunken, lapse in judgement on his part. On Richie’s part… well. That’s harder to work out, because he hadn’t been drunk at all. But Eddie has experienced the hazy effects of weed, and whilst it didn’t particularly make him want to behave in reckless ways that he wouldn’t otherwise, there’s something to be said for the way it loosened him up. Got him to speak aloud the things at the forefront of his mind. So perhaps, maybe, that was why Richie had said some of the things Eddie is pretty sure he remembers him saying. Stuff like ‘ _you’re so beautiful’_ and _‘I think I would’ve said anything to engage you in conversation’_. Stuff that makes Eddie squirm just thinking about it. 

He sighs into his pillow, yet again wide awake at one in the morning, trying to calm the whirlpool of thoughts in his brain. He picks up his phone from the bedside table and opens his chat with Bev. 

**Eddie  
** Hey. Are you awake? 

**Bev**  
yeah whats up? x

 **Eddie  
** Nothing. I can’t sleep.

She calls him on FaceTime. Eddie thinks about declining, but the empty, hollow shadows of his room seem suddenly achingly depressing. The thought of seeing her elfin face is a nice one. He clicks accept, switching on his bedside light. 

“Hey,” she says. 

Eddie frowns at the screen; she’s not in her bedroom. “Where are you?” 

“Ben’s weird sex bunker,” she replies. 

“Not a sex bunker!” Ben calls from somewhere off-screen. “It’s a clubhouse.” 

“We’re underground so the signal is shit,” Bev explains. Her face is a little laggy, pixelating every so often. “You okay, honey? Is your mom being a dick?” 

“No more than usual. I’m just… I dunno. I feel weird. About the party.” 

She frowns. She seems to be laid in some sort of hammock - obviously a new installation since Eddie had last seen the place. Not that he’d done more than stick his head through the ceiling door when Ben had shown them, on principle. He’s sure Ben will make a great architect one day, but until he’s studied the mechanics of it, Eddie is not going to risk having his first prototype cave in on them. 

“The party? That was days ago. Did something happen?” 

Eddie shrugs, playing with his quilt. This was a bad idea, bringing this up to Bev. She never lets things drop, if she senses there’s gossip to be unearthed. 

“I guess I’m worried I made an ass of myself.” 

She glowers; even all wibbly from the poor signal it’s enough to chasten Eddie for being so hard on himself. “Edward, I will beat your tight little ass if you turn all emo on me. You were great that night! I was worried you’d be a stick in the mud, but you actually took my advice and loosened up for once. Loads of people mentioned to me how cool they thought you were. Stan The Man said you asked to be best bros. I almost had to sucker punch him for it, ‘cause that’s my title.” 

Eddie laughs, pleasantly buoyed by this sweet, if embellished, news. “Yeah, I guess. I dunno, I’m overthinking, probably.” 

“Definitely,” Ben calls from somewhere. “You were the life of the party, Eddie! We need to hang out more. Marathon Star Wars!” 

“Back the fuck off, Hanscomb,” Bev growls, then flashes Eddie a sly smile. “Speaking of your new found popularity, have you heard from Richie?” 

Eddie’s stomach makes a valiant attempt to swallow itself. “N-no. Why?"

She scoffs. “‘Cause he was all over you that night. Didn’t you notice?”

_Maybe a little._

“He’s all over a lot of people,” Eddie says weakly. “He’s a flirt.”

“Nooo way,” Ben interrupts again, his big sunny face pushing into the frame, “I endured at least two of his rants that night about the ways in which you specifically were tormenting him with the ripped jeans and the flower tattoos. Gotta agree with Bev on this one. He only has eyes for one person right now.” 

Bev pushes his face out of the frame again. Eddie stays quiet, pulling a whole thread from the quilt. It’s not like him not to have a short, quick-tempered response ready, so Bev obviously catches onto this at once. 

“Why're you being all quiet about this?" She sits up in the hammock, scrutinising him through the screen of her iPhone. "Hold on, did something happen, Eddie?” 

He splutters, angling the phone away a little. “No! What? With Richie? Are you kidding?”

“You disappeared a lot…” she says, mind whirring so hard he can almost hear the cogs turning. “I kept having to look for you.”

“I was… talking to Stan! And Ben! And… I was drinking a lot. I had to pee like twenty times.” 

“Eddie-” she starts to say, her voice stern, motherly. But the end of her sentence breaks away, leaving Eddie’s heart to stutter and flail. She relaxes back into the hammock, seeming to think things through. “Eddie... don’t go overthinking your way out of what you want.”

“What does that mean?” Eddie asks, though he’s so tense with nerves, suddenly, that he can’t make his toes unfurl. “I’m not doing that.” 

“You do it all the time,” she says sadly, softly. It dries up the retort on Eddie’s tongue. “Just listen to your gut for once. You know how drinking is supposed to just strip back all your reservations and give you the confidence to do what you really want? Maybe reconsider the idea that whatever it is you did at the party was the wrong thing. That you made an ass of yourself. Because really, that’s just you doing what you wanted for once. Not worrying about the consequences.” 

“Hmm,” Eddie manages. He’s made a hole in his quilt. His mom’s gonna kill him. “How’s things with the two headed boyfriend-beast you’ve created?”

She smiles, sly. “Bill, say hi to Eddie.” 

“Hey,” Bill calls from somewhere; Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “I agree with Bev and Ben. You were a lot of fun at the party. And Richie is disgustingly obsessed with you. He talked my ear off at work all the next day. And every day since.”

This, for obvious reasons, is alarming. “He did?” Eddie asks, shrill. “Err. Anything… in particular?” 

Does Bill know what happened? Eddie’d been pretty sure, until now, that Richie wouldn’t tell anyone, given that Eddie is not much to brag about, conquest-wise. But now, hearing that Richie has been 'talking people’s ears off' about him… he’s not so sure. Bill laughs; Bev angles the phone towards where he and Ben are sat on the floor, playing some sort of card game that involves gambling with clusters of jelly beans. 

“Same sort of stuff as Ben got,” Bill says towards the lens. “ _‘Eddie’s gonna give me a coronary with those jeans.’ ‘Did you know that Eddie’s into 90’s gay arthouse cinema?’ ‘Can you believe I got Eddie into my house and was too much of a pussy to ask him to hang out?’_ That sorta stuff.”

Bev whips the phone back to face her. “You were in his _house_?!” 

“Yeah,” Bill says, impressed, “that one surprised me too.” 

“What was it like, Eddie?” Ben asks. "He never lets anyone come round his house."

"Yeah, the Turtle Crew are all convinced he's hiding, like, a furry dungeon at his place, or that his bedroom is covered in Woody Allen posters," Bill says, laughing. 

Eddie reddens, avoiding Bev’s steely gaze. “Um. It's big. Intense. Kinda intimidating.” 

“If Richie were here he’d make a dick joke right now,” Bill says, and they all laugh, even Eddie, if a little nervously. 

“I’d better go,” Eddie says once the subject has been dropped. “I’m tired. Thanks for picking up, Bev.”

“Anything to avoid hanging out with these poker nerds,” Bev says, earning herself a duet of indignant cries. “Remember what I said, Eddie. Shut your brain down for a while. Let your heart take the wheel. Even just for the rest of the night.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says unsurely, but vows, silently, to take her advice. She’s annoyingly good at this sort of thing. “Well, goodnight to the menage à trois.”

“Night, honey.”

“Goodnight!” calls Bill. 

“Sweet dreams, Eddie!” calls Ben. 

Bev blows him a kiss and hangs up, leaving Eddie to his empty bedroom. The shadows still loom across the walls. Eddie’s mind continues racing, but now he makes an active attempt not to decipher the thoughts swirling around. Instead, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and tries to think about what he really wants. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. So. Sex is now on the cards from this chapter on. You've been warned lol xx

**Eddie  
** **********2:00am**  
did you mean what u said in   
the car when we got high

**Eddie  
2:04am  
** wait forget i asked that

**Eddie  
2:06am  
** shit it’s so late. you can just  
ignore these when you read   
them

**Richie  
2:10am  
** ur impossible to ignore bb x

**Richie  
2:11am  
** gotta b honest tho im not sure  
what ur referring to… how high  
was i ? x

**Eddie  
2:13am  
** why are you awake?

**Richie  
2:14am  
** jerking off. y r u?

**Eddie  
2:15am  
**ew. it doesn’t matter. im  
going to bed. night

**Richie  
2:16am  
** **** can i call you?

Eddie’s thumb hovers, frozen, over the screen. He swallows hard, picturing Richie’s low, velvet voice crackling down the phone, slipping into his ear. The insides of his thighs prickle, and he has to force the idea away before any more blood rushes south. 

**Eddie  
2:19am  
** I’m really tired. Think im just  
gonna go to sleep.

It takes four minutes before the next text comes through. Eddie almost gives up waiting. 

**Richie  
2:23am  
** Night, angel. x

*

The following day is a Thursday, and Eddie wakes up at six. ‘Wakes up’ is a generous term for what happens, as he spent the majority of the night splashing about in the shallows of his dreamscape, having vague, erotically charged encounters with tall, scraggly-haired figures. He crawls out of bed and showers in an attempt to rid himself of his annoying hard-on, but it’s persistent. Eddie hates morning wood, hates the entire boring concept of his raging hormones riling him up without his permission just because he’s doggedly trundling through puberty seemingly at half the speed of everyone else.  He ignores his dick as best he can, gets out of the shower and goes through his normal routine. When he exits the bathroom his mom is hovering in the hallway, wringing her hands.

“You’re up so early, Eddie bear,” she says, hand on his forehead. “Didn’t you sleep? Is it a fever?” 

“No, mom,” Eddie says, batting her hand away, “I’m just overthinking. I’m fine.”

He tries to walk away from her, to get inside the safety of his bedroom and close the door, but she follows at his heels, trotting after him on her clompy feet. “Overthinking? Is this about school, honey? Are you getting anxious about going back? Because I always said it’s okay if you want to be homeschooled. Lots of kids your age find that helpful in their senior year because it helps them focus-”

“I’m not worried about school!” Eddie cries, perhaps a little sharper than he intended. He takes a deep breath, turning to face her. “I like school,” he tells her, holding her gaze, “I like learning with other kids around. I like seeing Bev, and Bill, and- and my other friends.” 

She doesn’t need to know that he has no other friends in his year. That would only complicate his argument. 

“Oh, but I just worry that you’re stressing yourself so much,” she wheedles, eyes round and wide. She’s always had such dull, uninteresting eyes. It’s good fortune that Eddie inherited his dad’s rich, chocolatey brown eyes. His mother’s are a flat, boring mud colour. “You could get high blood pressure! And that could lead to heart disease, or-”

“Mom, please,” Eddie groans, eyes fluttering shut, “it’s six-thirty in the morning. I’m in a towel. Can we talk about this later?” 

She sniffs, smoothing down her silken nightgown. “I’m only trying to look out for you, Eddie.” 

“I know,” Eddie says, honestly. It’s not her fault that her mothering methods are overbearing on a good day. “I just want to get dressed and started with the day.”

“Okay, Eddie,” she says, and he takes the opportunity to dart into his room and close the door. She knocks on the wood, and he sighs. “I’ll make oatmeal for breakfast.”

“Great,” he replies through gritted teeth, and her footsteps finally recede. 

Before he does anything else, Eddie goes to his phone and scrolls through his contacts until he finds Stan’s phone number. 

**Eddie  
** Hi. Are you busy today?

**Stan  
** Not really why

**Eddie  
** Want to hang out in town?

**Stan**   
Sure. Where did you have in   
mind?

**Eddie  
** Anywhere with a distinct lack of   
turtles.

**Stan  
** Ha. I’m in. Come over in an hour?

**Eddie  
** Perfect. 

After enduring a full half hour of swallowing lumps of stodgy oatmeal while his mother rags on him about his peaking stress levels, Eddie escapes the house by bolting for the door as soon as the morning marathon of Judge Judy comes on. He power walks to Stan’s house, cutting across his lawn instead of using the front path in case he hears his mother’s screeching from the porch, calling him back. Thankfully, she either chooses not to bother, or doesn’t manage to struggle up from her chair in time. 

Stan’s mom opens the door, and Eddie braces himself for being turned away, but finds instead that Mrs Uris is, bizarrely, completely okay with her son having a social life. She invites Eddie in, all warm smiles and offers of juice and snacks, both of which Eddie politely declines, but appreciates nonetheless. She settles him on the sofa in the lounge while she goes to retrieve Stan from upstairs, and Eddie looks around this neat, simply decorated house with its vases of flowers on the sills, family photos on the walls, and tasteful, pretty Chamsa artwork.  It’s the kind of normalcy Eddie aches to have grown up around. Sitting in the midst of it, the pleasant décor washing him with calm, Eddie only feels more regretful that he’d failed to properly befriend Stan sooner. He could have hung out here more. He’s been in this house once or twice, when the two of them worked on a project, but he’s never taken the time to appreciate it. 

Stan comes down the stairs then, as casual and friendly as if they've been hanging out together for years; it's so easy to fall into step with his breeziness that nearly all of Eddie's social anxiety over the situation recedes, and they leave the house to head for town. Eddie’s bike is just leant up against his house, so he collects it, sneakily, and the two of them cycle through the balmy day side by side. They don’t exchange a lot of conversation, but there’s no painful silence either, just the whip of the wind and the whir of their pedals.

They park their bikes in the alley beside the pharmacy and wander around for a while, peering in shop windows and discussing the dull mundanity of everyday consumerism, finding they share the opinion that most products, but particularly crap with ‘relatable’ or ‘branded’ icons, are pointless, vapid distractions from real societal issues. They buy milkshakes from a takeaway place that Eddie has always walked by enviously, smelling the mouthwatering vanilla and fruit wafting out. But Stan shocks him by ordering a vegan milkshake, made with coconut milk instead of dairy, and when he lets Eddie try a sip, he immediately orders one too. 

“I can’t believe I’ve been missing out just because I’d convinced myself I’m a dairy intolerant outcast,” Eddie says between slurps. 

They’ve come to sit on a bench by the bandstand in the park to drink their shakes. Stan chuckles at him, watching how Eddie hoovers up the treat. He can’t help himself; it’s a hundred times better than anything he could have imagined. 

“It’s 2020, Eddie,” Stan says, “dairy is scary, and all that. Most places cater to vegans now, you just have to ask.” 

“I guess I didn’t really think about it like that.” Eddie slurps a little more, musing. “My mom always made it sound so terrible. Like my allergy was something to be afraid of. But you look at it like a choice.”

“Yeah, well,” Stan says, shrugging and slurping. “My parents raised me to believe that people should do whatever they can to make the world a little better. Whether it's taking the bus instead of driving, or picking up litter on the highway, or whatever. Being vegan cuts my carbon footprint way down, and it's something I feel like I can do. Not everyone feels that way, I get that. But like I was saying, it’s not even that hard these days. At least, I don't find it hard. So that's how I'll do my bit.” 

Eddie side-eyes him. “That’s a cool way to think.” 

They fall into silence, lounging back against the bench. Eddie’s just about to ask Stan something else about his views, fascinated by how his mind works, and then Stan turns his head a little to look Eddie in the eye. 

“So, you and Richie, huh?” 

Eddie has to work to keep the milkshake travelling the right way down. “What? We’re- we’re just friends. Not even that, really. He’s kind of a dick.”

Stan nods quietly, and then says: “I saw him kiss you at Bev’s party.” 

Eddie’s pretty sure his face cycles through several phases of emotion, beginning with horror, ending in resignation. “Oh,” he says eventually, chewing on his straw. It’s a disgusting habit, and he’s told Bev off for it before. “Um. I was pretty drunk that night.” 

“Yeah,” Stan agrees, shooting him a smile. “But Richie wasn’t.” 

“Um. When... did you see us?” 

“On the patio.” Stan is staring up into the leaves of an overhead oak tree, head cocked slightly to one side. “D’you hear that? I think it might be a parakeet.” 

“You saw us outside? I thought we were alone out there.”

“The windows looking out from the kitchen are made of glass, Eddie.” Stan finishes his milkshake with a loud slurp, then sets the empty cup down between them, eyes still fixed on the tree. “Yeah, it’s definitely a parakeet. People keep them as pets, but they escape and start breeding in parks all over the country.”

Eddie just stares at Stan’s profile, trying to suss out what he thinks about all of this. His heart is a drum, kicking against his chest, but Stan seems completely placid, barely a flicker of any emotion on his face apart from gentle curiosity about the bird. 

“Did anyone else see?” Eddie manages to ask. 

Stan shrugs one shoulder. “I can’t be sure, but I didn’t notice anyone else looking. People get very insular when they’re drunk.” Finally, Stan drops his gaze from the overhead branches. “So, do you like him?”

Eddie fidgets in his seat, setting the rest of his milkshake down. His stomach is churning too violently to enjoy any more of it. “I don’t know. He’s confusing.”

“You think so?” Stan asks. “I think he’s pretty simple, actually. Up front about what he wants, which I guess you’ve noticed.” Noticing Eddie’s grimace of discomfort, he smooths out his voice. “Maybe it’s not him that’s confusing you. Maybe you’re confusing yourself.”

Eddie shoots him a look. “Are you, like, his agent? Are you trying to get me to-”

“I’m not trying to get you to do anything, Eddie,” Stan interrupts. “Really. I have no chips in this game except the happiness of a new friend.” He studies Eddie’s face. “You don’t seem very happy at the moment, if you don’t mind me saying.” 

“No,” Eddie sighs, shoulders sinking from where they’d risen, tensed, to his ears, “I get that a lot.” 

“Happiness is sort of a choice as well,” Stan says, sounding wise beyond his years. A green bird, more vibrant in colour than Eddie has ever seen in a place that wasn’t a zoo, flutters down from over their heads and lands, briefly on the path in front of them to peck at a crumb. Eddie stares at it, bewildered, and then it takes flight again, back into the concealment of the broad oak leaves. “You have to want it," Stan continues, "to pursue it instead of wallowing in all the reasons you’re sad. I don’t know if Richie would make you happy, of course. But, despite his flaws, he’s fun, and generous, and kind. Judging by the things he was saying to everyone at the party, he really likes you, too.” He rises to his feet then and places his empty cup into the trashcan beside the bench, like a tear hadn’t just ripped through their dimension in front of them and spat out a neon green bird native to Southern India. “If I were you,” Stan says, holding out a hand to help Eddie up, “I’d sleep on it.” 

*

Eddie is bad at sleeping on his thoughts. They whirl around in his brain like an angry tornado, too violent to ignore. He lays awake that night, Stan’s almost disturbingly insightful words pelting him from every direction. On top of that, he’s trying to will away another erection, which has come from seemingly nowhere, but is just as insistent as the one from this morning.  His phone buzzes, and before he even looks at it, his dick twitches, as if it’s predicting the name he’ll see. Eddie closes his eyes, willing the text to be from Bev, then reaches over to grab the phone. 

**Richie  
** missed u at TC today :(  
nobody yelled at me at all

**Richie  
** had to steal bills moustache  
so he’d call me a dick and hit  
me

Eddie flips the phone over on his nightstand, desperately trying to think of something else. He presses a palm over the bulge in his pyjama pants in an attempt to relieve the pressure. It’s starting to throb, but he knows any attempt to sate the lustful urge would be fruitless. Still, his hand pressing there makes it a little better. And when he thinks of Richie, lying in his own bed in a mini mansion miles away, texting Eddie when he could be doing anything else… that feels pretty good too. 

Eddie reaches for the phone again, reading the texts over. He can hear Richie’s voice saying the words. But not his stupid badly accented Voices. His real voice. The one Eddie has heard whisper some intimate things, sultry and low. A tremor of thrill undulates through him as he presses more firmly against his straining erection. A third text pings through without warning, and a whimper escapes Eddie’s lips. 

**Richie  
** just wanna feel close to u xx

*

It’s been an hour and twenty minutes since Richie last texted, but Eddie is still rock hard, wide awake, and staring at his phone. He’s so worked up now, mostly from trying not to think about Richie and how hard he is, that he can feel his coherent mind slipping into Dangerously Stupid Mode.  There’s a stray thought that maybe he should try to resist the urge that overwhelms him now, but it’s distant, small, like a muffled radio signal. Before he can stop himself, he finds Richie’s name in his contacts, and presses the number. It begins ringing, and Eddie’s stomach flips, his heart stomping about wildly in its panic. Eddie holds the phone to his ear, lip caught between his teeth. Maybe if he could just hear the voice out loud, it would be enough to-

“Eds?” 

It’s croaky, confused, but definitely his voice. The sleepy coating makes it drag, like sand across stone. Eddie fights back a sigh. “Hi,” he whispers. 

“What’s… are you okay? Do you need somethin’?” 

Eddie pulls the phone away to check the time. 2:42am. Crap. There’s no reasonable explanation for this call. He’ll just have to feign sleep-calling after the fact. He wills Richie to speak again, hand pushing deeper into his pyjama pants. Although they don’t do anything to make the situation better down there, the fingers stroking over his dick do feel good. His sigh escapes this time, long and deep, tickling against the trills of pleasure that dance down his arms when he moves them. 

Then, a low, breathy chuckle pours through the phone’s speaker, right into Eddie’s ear, and, seemingly, trickles all the way through his body. “Shit, Eds. Are you up to what it sounds like you’re up to?” 

Eddie  _ does _ feel the responding embarrassment smack into him, but again, like the voice of reason, it’s far away. Removed from his present, up front thoughts of  _ more _ ,  _ need _ , and, most unfortunately,  _ Richie _ . 

“W-what?” is all Eddie can manage in response, but he’s fooling nobody and he knows it. 

His cock has well and truly perked up to the sound of Richie’s voice, as he’d known it might. He wishes he could just get rid of his hard-on normally, quick and fast, like he knows other boys must. He wishes he didn't need this, but he can already feel relief on the horizon, if only Richie would stay on the line. Into his ear, Richie makes a small, desperate sounding groan. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters, voice now not much above a growl, “you’re trying to fucking kill me.”

“Keep talking,” Eddie finds himself saying. 

He can feel how his whole body responds to the words Richie drools into his ear, as close as if he were lying right beside him. Eddie’s fingers squeeze around the base of his dick, trying to chase the pleasure, and the bolt that surges through him makes him gasp. 

“Keep talking?” Richie repeats, slower. “You like the sound of my voice, baby?” 

Eddie’s next breath is followed by a thin moan, caught on its tail. He feels the blush at Richie having heard extending all the way down his throat, over his chest, pricking out his nipples, but he ignores it. He’s so hot, all over, so he kicks away the covers, pushes his pyjama pants down to his knees. 

“Yes,” he answers, but it sounds like a beg. 

Richie curses, sharp and grating. “You want me to tell you all the things I’d wanna do to you, Eds? If I were with you right now?” 

Eddie isn’t quite prepared for the way the question seizes hold of him, body and soul. He feels wild and a little panicked, as if Richie could  _ know _ how badly he wants that, as if he could use Eddie’s painfully obvious yearning to teleport across Derry and land in bed beside him. Eddie turns on his side so that the phone can press between his cheek and the pillow, allowing him use of both hands. 

“Please,” he whispers into the phone, “tell me.”

“Shit. Okay. Let me… okay.” There’s a shuffling noise and a creak of bedsprings that probably lasts mere seconds, but seems to Eddie, in his wrecked, flustered state, to take several years. Then, gloriously, he’s back. “God, I bet you look so hot right now. I would literally chew my own arm off to see you like this.”

“You would?” Eddie breathes. 

“Yeah. ‘Cause I’d wanna make you come, baby,” Richie intones, deep and rich as molasses, pouring over Eddie’s lower body, coating him in viscous warmth. “I’d take you in my mouth first, I think. Yeah. Definitely.” He seems, almost, to be talking to himself as well, Eddie notes vaguely, but his dick has started leaking now, and it’s making Eddie’s hands all slick against him, so if he concentrates hard enough, he can pretend it really is Richie’s mouth. And that’s pretty distracting. “Would you like that, Eds? I’m good at it."

"Y-yeah?" Eddie manages. 

"Mmhmm. I’d let you work your hips and use me if you wanted.” Richie's breathing has changed. It's faster, less controlled. Eddie tries to focus on it so that he won't drown in the gritty, consuming pleasure coursing through him. "Or I could do all the work. Just let you watch me on my knees, taking you all the way in."

“Fuck,” Eddie chokes out; this is the most horny he has ever been, period. His dick feels like it’s going to explode - something Eddie has never experienced. He can feel something, a pressure, building just below his gut, spreading over his thighs. He’s not dumb, he’s sat through Sex Ed and heard Bev talk about the audacity of men not giving her orgasms to know what the feeling is like in theory, but to experience it is something different. It’s almost scary, but Eddie just focuses on Richie’s melted caramel voice, and keeps his hand moving in that same, steady rhythm. “Don’t stop.” 

Richie’s words are breathier when they next leave his mouth, but if anything that just makes him sound sexier. “Ungh. I wanna touch you _so_ bad, Eds. Ever since that party. You’re all I can think about.”

“What… what else do you want to do with me?” 

Richie chuckles again, deeper, and Eddie feels his hips twitch forwards. “You like it when I describe it to you, baby? How about this: If I had you underneath me, all naked and desperate like you are right now… I’d work you open on my fingers. For _hours_. I’d go so slow it’d drive you nuts, angel. I’d stretch you out and taste you at the same time. I’d find your g-spot and milk it dry, make you come over and over again, until you couldn’t take it any more. I’d make it so fucking good for you, baby.” 

The sensation flings itself through him like a burst of wildfire, scorching up his body, igniting nerves he didn’t know existed. He hears the desperate, mewling noises leaving his mouth, but can’t control them, has to bury his face in the pillow to drown them out. The phone slips away from him when he does this, but he’s too lost in the throes of the most brilliant ecstasy he’s ever known to care. Fluid pours from his dick, soaking the sheets in a way he knows will be disgusting to him later, but he can’t feel anything except the euphoria as he rolls onto his back, breaths ragged, the residual pleasure ebbing in his bones. 

A minute passes, maybe less, and Eddie’s senses begin to return. With them, the advancing stampede of his rationality and composure. Embarrassment inches in behind, nudging at the barriers of his psyche, impatient to re-consume him. Eddie scrambles for the phone, already horrified with what he’s just done. Richie is still speaking. He holds it to his ear, trepidatious. 

“...aaand so I’ll just keep chewing the fat with myself until you’re done cumming your brains out, shall I? That’s cool, no biggie, I too love the sound of my voice, Eds-”

“Richie,” Eddie whispers, and he falls quiet. 

The pause stretches, Eddie loathe to fill it. 

“You okay?” Richie asks in a surprisingly gentle tone. 

Eddie bites his lip. He feels so ridiculous he could shrivel up and die with it. But Richie, horrendously, is being sweet. “Wrong number,” Eddie tries, and Richie laughs. It’s not that deep, sensual chuckle, but the sleepy quality of it still has Eddie hot enough to consider a round two before his rational brain shoves the thought away. “I woke you up. I’ll let you go back to sl-”

“Wait, Eds,” Richie quickly cuts in. Another shuffle, another creak of springs. “Just… I'm glad you called me. And I’m available for future calls anytime. Like…  _ any time _ .”

“Kay,” Eddie squeaks, mortification whipping him Indiana Jones style, “goodnight then.” 

Richie lets out a breath that’s almost a whistle. “Night, gorgeous.” 

*

At eleven in the morning on Monday, Eddie is contemplating shaving his legs. It's partly for a more aerodynamic cycling ability, but mostly because he’s so bored of being grounded it’s either that or fling himself out of the window for a trip to the ER. Before he can get to a razor however, someone pounds on the front door. Eddie heaves himself up from the bed to answer it - his mom has gone out for the day on her weekly trip to visit her sister across town. Eddie avoids going with her as much as possible because of his demon twin cousins, Letty and Corey: six-year-old menaces with a penchant for biting things, people, and each other. 

Once, after Letty sank her baby fangs into Eddie’s calf, Eddie’s mom dragged him to hospital to get a very painful, and likely unnecessary, tetanus shot. There was a silver lining to the ordeal though: now his mom is just as resistant as Eddie is to having him come along on the family visits.  Eddie hauls open the door to see Bev standing on the porch, wearing a baseball cap in the shape of a turtle. 

He closes the door. 

“No,” he calls through the wood. “Go away.”

“Come on, Eddie!” she wheedles, pounding again. “I’ve got Ben in the car. We wanna go see Bill in his dumb sombrero.” 

“Great,” Eddie calls, then opens the door to show her his stoic, unmoved face. “Go nuts. Tell me all about it later.”

She pouts. “Come on, we can stop by-”

“Do not say Wild West World.”

“Actually I was gonna say Turtle Tots Town. Bill said Richie’s working the kiddie trampolines now.” 

“He’s been bumped again?” Eddie asks, then holds up a hand. “No, wait. I don’t care. I’m not coming.”

“Oh, you’d rather stay here and wait for your mom to get home?”

The smug smile Bev aims at him as she slides into the driver’s seat beside him, squishing him between her and Ben, is almost enough to make Eddie crawl out of the truck window. But then Ben is slinging an arm around his shoulders, and Bev has started the engine, and it's all too late. Ten minutes later, they’re pulling into a parking space in the Turtle Cove car park. 

Having Ben along with them is actually a pleasant change. He’s sweet, kind, and easygoing. He buys Bev a strawberry lollipop in the shape of a crab, then makes a valiant attempt at winning her a giant stuffed turtle on the basketball game. 

“You can just have mine,” Eddie protests to Bev as they watch Ben’s ball bounce off the misshapen hoop. “It takes up so much space in my room. And besides, it was ill-gotten.”

“Having a cute ass that makes the boys drool and fork over plushie marine animals does not mean Richie II was ‘ill-gotten’,” Bev replies. She coos reassuringly as Ben walks back over to them, head bowed, admitting defeat. “Don’t sweat it, honey. Those ones all looked under-stuffed anyway.” 

He doesn’t want to admit it to the others, but something about being in Turtle Cove today is proving to lift Eddie’s spirits far more than usual. A cloudy sky shields the worst of the sun from glaring down, and he’s foregone his windbreaker, so he doesn’t feel stifled and overheated. The crowd is also thin, maybe because of the cooler weather, so they never need to queue for longer than half an hour for anything. Plus, having the whole park to roam with two people he enjoys being around, after spending days cooped up with nobody but his mother to talk to, is freeing. 

He feels like he can breathe again. 

“Hey, there’s Turtle Tots Town,” Ben points out, gesturing to the pastel coloured archway. “We could stop by the trampolines?”

“Oh, no,” Bev lauds, “Eddie would _hate_ that. He specifically said he doesn’t care _where_ Richie is working today. He wouldn’t wanna go in there for _any_ reason. Right, honey?”

Eddie gnaws on his lip. Everything had been going so well. They’ve just stumbled off the Turtle Coaster - Eddie’s least hated of all the rides. The prickle of excitement that manifests at the thought of seeing Richie blows on the lingering sparks of adrenaline from the ride. A hotpot of confusing emotions bubbles in his stomach.  Does he want to see Richie? There’s certainly a part of him that reduces itself to a humiliating fool around Richie, and that part yearns to skip straight into Turtle Tots Town and bounce with him on a trampoline. But the more sensible parts of Eddie beg him to remain defiant, to demand they walk on, undistracted, to El Mexicana. Those parts are winning, Eddie’s pretty sure, but when he opens his mouth to tell Bev and Ben that he doesn’t want to go in there, he finds that they’ve already walked on ahead, and are strolling beneath the arch. 

He sprints up to them, terrified, and hooks his arm into Bev’s. “Wait, I don’t think-”

“Eddie, you know me, I don’t like to pry,” Bev says, continuing to walk. Eddie snorts loudly at her, and she glares. “Well I haven’t asked you why you’re acting like such a freak about Richie since the party, have I?”

“Yes, you have! Twice!”

“Well, I haven’t pried to the extent I could have pried,” she corrects herself. Beside her, Ben is chuckling; their hands are joined. “I don’t know what happened, but you need to grow a pair. Of balls, of boobs, of something. Because we _are_ going to see Richie this summer. Probably a fair bit. He’s our friend, and he works at the park with our other friends. So, look, there’s the trampoline park.” Hands on his shoulders, she aims Eddie’s body in the direction of the Turtle Tot Trampolines - a dozen square trampolines rigged with bungees and harnesses, surrounded by a mesh wire fence. “Let’s all go over there, you can see Richie in the flesh, choke out an awkward ‘hi’, he’ll make some kind of outrageous objectifying comment about your ass, and then we can move the fuck on. Okay?” 

Ben side-eyes her, confused. “I thought you wanted to get Eddie to-”

“Ben!” she interrupts, eyes ablaze. “Can you just let me work, please?” 

He holds up the hand not holding hers in surrender. “I'll shut up. Let’s bounce.” 

They start towards the trampolines, weaving through toddlers with no sense of trajectory, Eddie too sulky after the telling-off to dispute the destination. There’s only one child strapped into a harness, bouncing on the trampoline. They’re blubbing and screaming as they're hurtled up and down, but Richie, watching from beneath, does not seem to find this troubling. 

“Doing great, Jack my man!” he shouts to the kid. “Do a flip! No? Okay, well the classic bounce is good too.”

“Oi! Lanky geezer with the lady locks!” Bev calls in a surprisingly good British accent from the entrance cut into the fence, hands cupped around her mouth. “Over here!” 

Richie turns, shooting her a ready grin. His eyes slide over Ben, then hover on Eddie, who blushes  _ hard _ immediately, in the exact way he swore to himself he wouldn't. Richie signals ‘one moment’, and turns to free Jack from his torture. 

When Bev turns, snickering, to Eddie, her smile falters. “Jeez, you look like you’re about to pass out again. Is this a thing with you two?” 

“I’m fine,” Eddie mumbles, desperately trying to regulate his breathing. 

He cannot be weird. He simply cannot. Even if he did jerk off to the sound of Richie’s voice the other night. _Oh, God._

“Comrades!” Richie cries, jogging towards them with outstretched arms. “You’ve come at last to free me from the shackles of our capitalist turtle overlord.” 

“We brought you a present,” Bev informs him, then shoves Eddie forwards, sending him crashing into Richie’s front. Eddie really hates her sometimes. 

“For me?” Richie asks, arms wrapping around Eddie to keep him pressed there for a moment. “Gosh, Marsh, how did you know? This is just what I wanted!” 

“I heard you like scrappy, stubborn little neat-freaks.”

Richie tightens his hold around Eddie as he struggles to get free. “Ooh, he’s a little feisty.” 

“Don’t feed him after midnight,” Ben jokes. 

Eddie claws his way out of Richie’s octopus embrace, now scarlet with indignation. “I’m not a stuffed turtle. You can't manhandle me.” He takes a hasty step back from Richie before his own unpredictable body can get any wild ideas about diving back in there. “Bev, I’m going to murder you in Mexico. In front of all your boyfriends.” 

“Good luck,” she scoffs. “Ben and Bill will protect me.”

“I’m on your side, Eds,” Richie stage-whispers, hand cupped around his mouth. “‘l’ll pull Bill’s sombrero over his eyes, that’s one outta the picture. Then it’s two on two.” 

“I heard Bev likes the ratio to be a little less even than that,” Eddie spits, and Richie whistles. 

Ben laughs too, though Bev only flips him off. 

“Alright, time out, friends,” Richie declares, making a 'T' with his hands. “We’re all a little cranky, it would seem. Who wants to get a soda? I’m overdue a pee break.” 

“Who will supervise the torture of these innocent children if you leave?” Eddie asks, quite serious, but it only makes Richie laugh. 

He pulls the gate of the trampoline park closed behind them when he steps out, flipping a sign that says ‘back in ten’ with a cartoon of a turtle holding a pocketwatch. They amble over to a nearby drinks and snacks stall, where Richie procures four free sodas, which turns into three free sodas and a free water, at Eddie’s protestations.  He chucks each of them a bottle, presenting Eddie’s water to him with a small bow. “Angel,” he says, but he’s straightened up and engaged in unscrewing the lid of his own soda before Eddie can react to the pet name. “So, you guys wanna hear the rad idea I just had?” 

“Is it to quit?” Ben asks, staring in horror at a child puking into a trash can nearby. He pulls his gaze away, focusing again on Richie in his stupid TC hat. “Because you should quit.” 

“Ah, can’t do that,” Richie tuts, smiling enigmatically. “Too much riding on the job, y’know. Too many prospects. Wanna climb the ranks. First Turtle Manager, then Turtle Executive, then Turtle Owner.”

“Bet your dad would love that,” Eddie remarks, then takes a sip of water. 

Richie claps a look on him that makes Eddie regret speaking. Had that been a secret? Like Richie’s house is a secret? _Shit._

“Errr… are we missing something?” Bev asks, looking between them. 

Richie’s stare breaks off, and he fixes Bev with an easy smile. “Nah. Eddie’s all tangled up in my daddy issues, is all.” She snickers, and Eddie tries to stomp on Richie’s toe. “So, my idea!” Richie continues, hopping out of Eddie’s way. “Because I’m such a sexy rebel-type, they keep bumping me around from land to land, doing different jobs. After a while they got bored of making me new keys each time, so they just gave me one of their master keyrings.” 

He pulls a hoop out of his pocket; it’s crammed with keys of all shapes and sizes, as well as a rusted novelty Turtle Cove keyring that Eddie has seen for sale in a few of the gift shops. They all gawp at these keys as the understanding of all they can achieve with them dawns. 

“I know,” Richie says, seeing their faces. “I wouldn’t have trusted me either. But it’s their mistake, right? So, whaddya say we perform some truly nefarious, no-good, teenage acts of rebellion?”

“Like what?” Bev asks eagerly. 

The prospect of breaking the rules has always been like a drug to her. Eddie looks on in concern, exchanging a mildly worried look with Ben, who tends to play things a little safer. 

“Well…” Richie leans towards them all conspiratorially. “I was thinking we could sneak in here after close. Camp out for the night. We could have the whole place to ourselves. Invite whoever! Bill, Mike and I know how to work the rides. We can bring booze if people want it. We can go on the funhouses, eat corndogs to our heart’s content. Whatever we want!”

“That is _such_ a terrible idea,” Eddie says immediately. “The health and safety alone-”

“I’m in,” Bev shrieks, gripping Ben’s hand so hard it looks painful. “Benzo too, right honey?” 

“Uh,” he says. He sends Eddie an apologetic look. “Sure.”

Richie turns to Eddie, a flickering bulb of hopefulness in the back of his eyes. “Eds, don’t let me down here. A party’s nothin’ without you, remember?” 

Eddie’s flush is instantaneous. He glares back at Richie, furious with him for bringing up the memory of when he last made this proclamation, now, in front of the others. “No way." Eddie folds his arms. "It’s a dumb idea. You’ll all get arrested. Or kill someone accidentally. Either way-”

“So come supervise,” Richie pleads, getting down onto his knees like the idiot theatric he is. “Pretty please, gorgeous? You can boss me about all night. I’ll do everything you say, I swear.”

Bev snorts. “Like he doesn’t already have you completely whipped.” 

Eddie looks down into Richie’s open, desperate face, trying to keep himself under control. He’s shaking his head for a final no, when he catches the glint of mischief in Richie’s eye, a fraction of a second too late to prepare himself. 

“C’mon, I want you there, angel,” he intones, low and exactly as mind-numbingly sexy as he has sounded every time Eddie has broken his resolve for him. “Listen to my voice. I’m all worked up about this. Come to my naughty after-hours work party.” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie hisses under his breath, but feels it as the last of his resolve weakens and crumbles away. “Fine,” he declares, loudly, so Bev and Ben can hear. He turns, scowling, from Richie as he peels himself up off the floor. “But there’s no way my mom is gonna let me out again, so I’ll have to wait until she’s asleep.” 

“There’s the rebel that stole my heart,” Richie says with a customary wink. “Stop by anytime from eight o’clock onwards, my dudes.”

It’s all pretty normal after that, except that Eddie has the niggling feeling that he needs to apologise to Richie for the stupid comment about his dad. According to Bill, Richie had apparently let Eddie in on some great hidden part of his life when he took him to his house the other day. Why he’d done that, for Eddie, who he barely knew at the time, is baffling, but that doesn’t mean Eddie can just abuse the trust he’d been given. 

He waits for the right moment, but with Bev and Ben there it never comes. At last, they finish their drinks, and Richie has to get back to work. Bev and Ben are keen to see the third in their throuple; Eddie thinks about lingering behind to say his short ‘sorry’, but the idea of being alone with Richie, after what happened on the phone the other night, terrifies him into silence.  They leave him at the trampolines again, and Eddie walks away feeling like a massive idiot. Oh well, he tells himself sternly. He will, apparently, see Richie later on this ill-advised after-hours amusement park break-in. 

What were the wrong turns he made for this to become his life?


	10. Chapter 10

At ten-thirty in the evening, on the cycle ride over to Turtle Cove, Eddie has a long, isolated stretch of time to worry excessively about the upcoming night - but he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s because everybody in Derry, apart from Eddie, has a tale about breaking into the shitty amusement park at one time or another, so this feels like an inevitable event in his young life. Or perhaps it’s that Eddie is so filled with loathing for the indoors right now, particularly his own house with his mum's hoarder-clutter and persistent stench of premium-grade bleach, that he welcomes the thought of a whole night outside in the cool summer air. 

More likely, it has something to do with Richie. 

Eddie’s feelings surrounding Richie are the most confused they have ever been. The one certainty he can cling to is that he finds Richie just as annoying and gross and vulgar as he had when they first met. The difference it that now, after certain developments, Eddie must also admit to himself that he finds Richie attractive. These are two opinions that refuse to sit amenably side-by-side in Eddie’s head. They battle each other constantly for centre stage, creating a loud, unending cacophony that keeps Eddie in a near perpetual state of agitation. 

The only way to decide once and for all what the truth is, no matter how nerve-wracking the thought might be, is to see Richie in the flesh. Spending time in his presence, after everything that has occurred, will surely allow Eddie to gather definitive evidence for one argument, and then he can settle the war in his mind, finally understanding what it is he feels for Richie Tozier. It's a vague plan at best - no doubt pushed forward by the side of his brain that keeps prattling on about Richie's buttery soft hair and cocky smile - but it's all he has.

He cycles harder, quite enjoying the exertion, the pull in his thigh muscles. It's distracting, and therapeutically familiar. The twisting tracks and rickety towers that make up Turtle Cove’s wonky silhouette are visible from all parts of Derry, so there’s no way Eddie could take a wrong turn, even if he didn’t have the route stamped permanently into his brain. He flies across the barren car park, noting Bev’s truck parked right in the centre, across two spaces as an additional act of her rebellion. Eddie rides his bike all the way up to the front gates, veering off to the staff area, where Richie’s car sits alone. He props his bike up against it, securing it with the lock, then, looking around himself furtively for any nosey, late-night watchers, slinks up to the locked front entrance. A chainlink barrier has been pulled across the gap where the turnstile is; it doesn’t look particularly sturdy. Eddie hovers beside it, and texts Bev, as instructed. 

**Eddie  
** Hi, I’m here. 

**Bev  
** yay! coming xxxx

As he’d expected, Turtle Cove at night is a horribly creepy place. Even lurking outside it is unnerving, especially as Eddie is acutely aware that he’s about to break the law. It would be impossible to explain to a member of law enforcement why he’s hovering here, looking shifty, without revealing the entire plot and tattling on his peers. So he tries his best to keep quiet and still, pressed back against the wall of the ticket booth, where the shadows hopefully cloak him. Eventually, just as Eddie is convincing his paranoid brain that the noise he can hear is the sound of tyres on Turtle Cove car park gravel, he hears the unmistakable lark-like voice of his best friend. 

“...difficult to say what his favourite is ‘cause he’s a fussy eater, but he’s got a secret sweet tooth nobody knows about,” Bev is saying, talking about someone Eddie obviously doesn’t know. “One time at a sleepover he ate a whole pack of Twizzlers, but he’d never admit- oh, we’re here! Can you see him?”

Eddie slinks out of the shadows so he’s visible through the gate. Bev is skipping towards him, arm in arm with none other than Richie himself; they wear matching expressions of giddy, hyperactive delight. When they get to the gate, Richie brandishes his master set of keys. They jangle together in a discordant trill.

“Password?”

“Bite me,” Eddie answers. 

“Where?” Richie asks, and drops his eyes, unsubtly, to Eddie’s neck. 

Eddie blushes. “Just open the gate, asshole. I’m risking a lifetime grounding for your dumb illegal break-in party.” 

Richie unlocks the gate while Bev makes faces at him through the wire. Once it’s swung wide, Eddie pushes through the turnstile and hurries towards them. 

“I’m truly humbled by your sacrifice, Eds,” Richie tells him solemnly, then crouches down like a frog. “Please, allow me to piggy-back you to the rest of our criminal party as a token of my gratitude.”

“No way,” Eddie says, but Bev makes an irritated tutting noise. 

“For God’s sake, Eddie. The man is offering to carry your skinny ass all the way to Mexico. If you’re not hopping on, I will.”

So, because an irritable Beverly is a difficult thing to refuse, Eddie finds himself being bounced on Richie’s back for the duration of the journey the three of them make through the deserted park. It should have crossed Eddie’s mind before he mounted a gangly, high-energy beast that he wouldn’t be the most stable of vehicles, but he’s stuck in his position now, clinging to Richie’s shoulders for dear life. Richie’s big hands are wrapped around his thighs, holding him tightly in place. 

Eddie won’t lie. Pressing his body against Richie’s back - feeling the shift of his muscles, the grip of his long fingers, inhaling the tangy cologne he wears - is not un-arousing, in light of all that’s happened since the party. He’s a bit too distracted to focus on this, though, by the terrifying reality that is being hurtled along the main path by Richie Tozier, who is pretending, in that mature, dignified way of his, that he is an out-of-control camel on a sugar high from lapping up an accidental puddle of Mountain Dew. 

Bev cackles, jogging after them to snap photos on her phone as Richie careers left and right, hollering camel noises and delightedly making Eddie scream. This goes on all the way to El Mexicana, where, to Eddie's pure relief, voices begin creeping into earshot. Richie canters them down the path, past the Maraca Mini Circus, and rounds the corner to reveal a group of about sixteen teenagers. They are lounging around one of the fire-pits in the outdoor canteen. A fire crackles in a large stone pit, shaped like a huge shallow bowl on low stilts. The sight of the flames alarms Eddie at once, partly because alcohol, teenagers and fire are a bad mix, but also because surely the smoke must be visible from outside the park. But, as he thinks about it, he remembers that he had just _been_ outside the park, had been observing it from way across town even, and had seen nothing. El Mexicana must have been carefully chosen for a base camp, as it’s right in the middle of Turtle Cove, and therefore hides their misdeeds. 

Quite clever really. Richie probably had the idea. 

Also, it’s beginning to get dark, the cooler air rolling in, so Eddie is glad of the thrown out warmth when Richie finally sets him down. “That’ll be two-hundred dollars for the ride,” Richie tells him. Then, he winks. “Or we could work something out.” 

Eddie hits him in the arm. “How about I give you nothing and I don’t throw you in the fire for nearly dropping me three times.” 

“Deal,” Richie says with a grin. “You want a drink, cutie?” 

Bev flings herself back into Ben’s lap the moment they arrive, and Mike calls Eddie over to sit with he and Bill on a bench that they’ve pulled up to the fire. Stan is here too, sitting across from them on another bench with a few people Eddie vaguely recognises from school. He waves to Eddie with a smile, a rollie in his hand that looks as if it probably contains more substances than tobacco. While Eddie settles himself between Bill and Mike, Richie digs in a cooler they’ve brought along for a can of beer, and presents it to Eddie. 

“Is this all there is?” Eddie asks, nose wrinkling. “I mean, um. Thanks.” 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Richie says, wriggling in beside him by shoving Mike up the bench. “I told Mikey to bring booze, but forgot to specify there was a fusspot present. I’ll make it up to you.” 

“I’m not made of money, Rich!" Mike cries. "Beer is cheap.”

So, Eddie reluctantly snaps the can open and takes a disgusting sip. He manages not to spit it straight out again, which he's proud of himself for. “So, what’s the plan?” 

“There’s been an unfortunate but unanimous vote for the night’s next activity,” Richie tells him with a wince. “Brace yourself.” 

“Oh no,” Eddie says, lowering his can. 

Richie is wearing his Turtle Cove polo, but he’s pulled one of his gaudy shirts over it, this one is black, decorated with a neon geometric pattern. In the light of the fire and the cool evening beyond, his sharp features are softened, his skin golden, his eyes hazel instead of brown. His eyelashes, already long and dark, are so spidery and thick in this light that it looks as though he's rimmed them with kohl like a noughties scene kid. The effect is quite striking; Eddie has to deliberately shift his gaze so he won’t stare. 

“We wanna hit The Neibolt!” Mike shouts excitedly. “No queue!”

“And we can all go in one carriage!” a mousey girl on the next bench over yells, just as gleeful. Eddie doesn’t recognise her, but she’s wearing a TC uniform. “I’m so pumped.”

“Oh God,” Eddie says, already feeling queasy. He shoots a look at Richie. “Are you…”

“I’m gonna take one for the team,” he says, legs stretching out long in front of him, “sit this one out to be the conductor.” He leans in close to Eddie then, out of Mike and Bill’s earshot. “It’s safest if I do it. I’m the most experienced on that ride, and these louts are already drunk off their asses.” 

“And you’re not?” Eddie asks, curious. 

The flames crackle in Richie's eyes. “I don’t drink, Eds. You don’t remember that?” 

Eddie thinks about saying yes, of course he remembers that Richie hadn’t drunk anything at Bev’s party, but he hadn’t realised that meant Richie doesn’t drink _at all._ But the idea of bringing that up now, sober, around a load of their friends, is terrifying, so he stays quiet, sipping more beer and leaning away from the intoxicating patchouli scent radiating off him. To learn that Richie is a non-drinker is a surprising nugget of information to receive, for some reason. Obviously Richie smokes weed, so why not this? 

As the others finish off their drinks and get ready to leave for Horrorville, Eddie thinks of the fully stocked, completely unsupervised bar in Richie’s weird 50’s style living room. He remembers Richie saying that he does whatever he can to piss off his parents, and that they don’t even notice when he swipes their alcohol, let alone drinks it. Perhaps drinking loses its appeal for him when there are no repercussions. 

Bev holds Eddie's hand on the way to The Neibolt, chatting to him in the non-stop way she always does when she’s about two drinks in. She’s high on the group excitement about the after-hours ride, and the fact that both her lovers are here, apparently happy to share her affections in a way that astounds Eddie, who knows without a doubt, that if he were in their place, he’d be sick with jealousy. 

Polyamory, as a concept, is steadfastly unappealing to Eddie, who has trouble picturing himself entwining his life with one other person, who would have different desires and opinions and standards of hygiene. But Bev is so completely different to him, and has so much of herself to spread to the world, that he understands why she wants more than one romantic partner to share herself with. 

They wind their way through the gimmicky queue area, everyone running past the frozen animatronics, the empty portrait where Mike usually stands in his gory makeup. Finally they emerge in the loading area, and Bev and the girl who’d spoken of her excitement back at the fire, named Felicity, shotgun the front seats. Eddie tries to hide his fear, he truly does, but he’s got a constant observer these days, so when they reach the front and Richie hops over to the other side where the control booth is, he pulls Eddie with him. 

“You can help me control the ride from up here,” Richie says knowingly, head jerking towards the booth. “Keep me company.” 

Eddie swallows, because although Richie undoubtedly means well, this prospect somehow scares him more than the idea of boarding the carriage and being hurled around The Neibolt. 

From her position at the front, legs dangling, harness still raised above her head like a claw about to clamp down on her, Bev calls Eddie’s name, looking concerned. “You okay to wait, honey?”

She darts a quick look at Richie, then back at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. Eddie nods to her, forcing a smile. “Yeah, no problem. You know I hate this ride. Have fun.” 

“Okay,” she says unsurely. “It takes like three minutes anyway. Richie Tozier? Get over here and strap me in, I want a word.” 

He bounds over to her willingly, pulling the harnesses down over her and Felicity in that easy, enviably swift way that Eddie knows he'd be too puny to emulate. She says something sharp to him, a finger jabbed into his chest, and he smiles amusedly, but nods. Eddie waits by the entrance to the control booth for Richie to finish securing everyone else's harnesses, exchanging banter with every single person as he flits between the rows. It’s an attractive quality, the popularity Richie has in scads. It just renders the whole ‘crush’ Richie has on him even more bizarre in Eddie’s eyes, because he so obviously has a host of options available to him. Half the people here would probably get with him, given the chance. But if what everyone’s been saying is true, then Richie hasn’t spoken of anyone but him for weeks. 

“Alright-i-o, folks!” Richie shouts, running his gaze up and down the carriage in what Eddie presumes is a last minute check. Everyone does appear securely fastened, which relieves a sliver of the anxiety spiking in Eddie’s stomach. “Let’s get you ready to rumble! Eds, _mon coeur_ , follow me into my office.” 

He opens the door to the booth with one of his keys, then climbs the small flight of steps up to the small glass-panelled room, taking them two at a time. Eddie scurries up behind him, then leans against the far edge of the control panel while Richie, sat in a swivel chair, speaks in a ghoulish voice into a microphone, telling the others to "prepare for a scare in the dark, night air", while pressing buttons and turning keys. 

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Eddie asks, vaguely wondering whether he’s about to witness - and be partially responsible for - a load of his friends crashing to their deaths while illegally riding a death-trap rollercoaster. 

“I’m a professional Turtle Tycoon,” Richie assures him with a wink. “Don't sweat it, gorgeous. I’ve done this a zillion times.” 

He does a countdown into the mic, and Eddie watches, head shaking in bafflement, as through the glass the others squeal and flail their limbs in excitement. Then, Richie presses a big button that, imaginatively, reads ‘GO’, beside another that says ‘STOP’. The carriage shoots off at once, carrying with it the screams of delight the others let out. They echo down the tunnel for a few seconds, and then fade into the distance. Eddie settles his gaze on Richie, paralysed with nerves. 

This is the first time they’ve been alone in the same room since the party. 

“So, how’ve you been, Eds?” Richie asks in a reassuringly normal voice, and Eddie relaxes, slumping back against the panel. 

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

“Yeah, not bad. ‘cept I got this weird phone call at like 2am the other night-”

“Oh, for fuck’s-” Eddie’s flush flings itself over him, like someone has hurled a bucket of boiling water all over his face, shoulders and chest. “I hate you.” 

Richie, giggling, scoots his chair along the floor towards Eddie. “Sorry, gorgeous, but you can’t expect me to _not_ mention it.” He reaches out a hand, but Eddie slaps it away. “Aw, come _on_. Given that it was undoubtedly the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me, I think I've done pretty well holding my tongue so far. I’ve only managed to keep _stumm_ in front of the others because I knew you’d never speak to me again if I told anyone-”

“You are not going to tell anyone,” Eddie stresses, glaring. “Ever. It was… it was a stupid, sleep-deprived moment of insanity. And it will not be happening again.”

They fall quiet for a moment in the wake of Eddie’s icy words. He’s got his eyes fixed to the dirty stone floor, but eventually succumbs to the urge to lift them and peek at Richie’s expression. His face is carefully blank, resigned, like he’d been expecting this reaction. He uses a foot to turn himself this way and that in the chair, gazing out of the window towards the empty, dark loading dock. In the background, the faint sounds of their friends shrieking can be heard in the folds of the weighty silence. Eddie’s shoulders lose their tension as the silence stretches. He replays everything they just said, scanning it for places he might have gone a tad overboard in his defensiveness. Something sticks out, but not something that left his own mouth. 

“The hottest thing that's _ever_ happened to you?” Eddie asks, scornfully. Richie swivels towards him, smirking. “You expect me to believe that me making embarrassing noises down the phone to you was more exciting than every one of your real life sexual escapades?”

“Eds, the noises you were making were the opposite of embarrassing,” Richie tells him, nothing but sincerity in his firm expression, and Eddie squirms against the lip of the panel, horribly uncomfortable with the whole topic. Richie shrugs. “Besides, I was making some pretty dumb noises too.” 

Before Eddie can ask him to elaborate on this, the carriage slams back into the station, and Richie jumps to turn dials and press buttons to slow it down and stop it. The others are calling out, shouting something with their, bright, glowing faces turned towards the booth. Richie presses an intercom button, and the voices blare through an overhead speaker, making them both wince. 

“Again! Again! We want to go again!” is the general consensus, so Richie aims a finger gun at them all, and they cheer.

He switches off the intercom, and presses ‘GO’, sending the carriage off on its second round of the track. When he turns back to Eddie, he’s got his head cocked to one side, thoughtfully. 

“You didn’t know I was enjoying myself on the other end of the line, huh?” he asks, not the slightest bit pink-cheeked. Meanwhile, Eddie feels like he’s in a sauna. He scoots his chair closer again, until he’s right in front of Eddie, legs slightly apart, one eyebrow raised. “You think I could just reel off all that stuff I said, about what I wanna do to you, without it affecting me?”

Eddie’s not sure he can speak, so he simply shrugs a shoulder, trying his damndest not to point his gaze right into Richie’s crotch. It would be unseemly, despite the subject of their conversation. Richie nudges his leg with a knee.

“Come on, Eds," he murmurs, his low voice tinged with the smirk he wears. "You weren’t the only one that got something out of that phone call. You gotta know that.” 

“You said… a lot of stuff,” Eddie manages to say, though his voice is thin and strained. “I didn’t think you meant it. I thought you were just telling me what I wanted to hear.” 

Richie’s head lolls backwards in frustration. “Eddie, I just voiced the fantasies I’ve been having for weeks, man.” 

Something seems to override Eddie's sensibility when Richie talks like this. His next act is not exactly a conscious one, instead more of a knee-jerk reaction, propelled by lust, or something in that vicinity. His body moves, and his mind follows after. It barely takes a full step to close the distance between them, but when he gets there, Eddie leans forwards and sinks himself into Richie’s lap, one knee pushing either side of his hips, into the small gaps beside him on the chair. 

“Oh, shit,” Richie whispers, because this all happens rather quickly, no doubt taking him by surprise. Eddie scoots himself further in, until they’re as pressed together as is possible in this old, squeaky chair. “Okay… um. Tell me what you want here, Eds-”

“Kiss me,” Eddie says, his steady, confident voice surprising both of them. 

Richie wastes no time. He leans up to press their lips together, urgent, hands grabbing Eddie’s hips to hold him in place. Eddie falls directly into the feeling, tumbling headfirst back into that heady euphoria as soon as he tastes Richie’s mouth again. It feels like eating a candy he’s been craving, the sugar buzzing along his bloodstream, electrifying and impossibly sweet. Richie sighs against him, which is enough to convince Eddie that he’s feeling it too - this hypnotising, magnetic thrill that’s driving them together. Richie isn’t tentative or careful with him, the way Eddie expects. His desperate movements betray the pure, powerful want that's motivating him, which is every bit as scintillating as the kiss itself. Richie’s hands slide down to his ass, the way they’d done at the party, squeezing him tight. 

Eddie slips a hand round to the back of his head, threading fingers through his messy hair, and Richie groans, then lifts him right up out of the chair, so sudden that Eddie has to lock his legs around his waist before he falls to the ground. Eddie yelps, gripping hard, not sure what’s happening, and then Richie is laying him backwards over the control panel, the bumps and grooves of the buttons and dials digging into his back. A vague worry passes overhead that maybe they’ll accidentally nudge something and send the carriage with all of their friends in it plummeting off the track, but it evaporates before Eddie can grasp hold. 

Richie kisses along his jaw, down his throat, nipping at the skin as he crowds in closer, pressing their bodies together. He takes hold of Eddie’s wrists and pins them either side of his head; Eddie whimpers at the loss of control, feeling his stomach flip and his heart flutter. His dick is rapidly swelling in his shorts, exacerbated by the brush of Richie’s crotch against him every few moments. He’s trying, without the use of his hands, to work out if Richie is in a similar stage of arousal, but before he gets close to figuring it out, Richie is pulling away sharply, suddenly, his ear cocked to the side. 

“Shit,” he hisses, then releases his hold on Eddie’s hands. His head tips forwards with a frustrated groan, so that their foreheads connect. 

“What?” Eddie asks, dazed.

“They’re coming back,” Richie informs him, sounding extremely unhappy about this fact. 

For a moment, Eddie is too lost in the cocoon they’ve created to understand, but after a few moments, the situation re-forms, and the world shapes itself back into stark, unkind reality. 

“Shit,” Eddie echoes, and pushes himself onto his elbows, forcing Richie to straighten up with a forlorn sigh. “We need to…”

“Yeah,” Richie mumbles, running a hand through his scraggly mane. “Yeah, um. Let me help you…” he takes Eddie’s hand and helps him down off the panel. Almost as soon as Eddie’s feet hit the floor, the carriage screeches back into the station. Richie hits the ‘STOP’ button with his fist, then grabs the mic, falling back into the chair. “Any chance you guys wanna go for a third spin?” 

He flicks on the intercom, and a chorus of ‘noooo’ and ‘twice was enough’ fills the room. Breathing a little erratically, Eddie tries to gather himself together in preparation of re-integrating into the group. Richie’s head falls forwards to thunk against the control panel. 

“Alright, I’ll be down to release you in a sec,” he says, and then switches off the mic. He turns to Eddie, tortured. “Don’t get me wrong, Eds, that was a fantastic and unexpected moment in this otherwise mediocre night, but _fuck_. Tearing myself away from you is about as fun as what I imagine jamming a finger into a plug socket feels like. Now, please excuse me while I unchain my throng of evil cock-blockers.” 

He hops down the stairs before Eddie can scrounge up a reply. He stays in the booth for a while longer, watching Richie unfasten everyone’s harnesses and join in with their excitable chatter, before taking a deep breath, and going down to join them. 

*

A few of the group split off from the pack on the way back to El Mexicana, wanting to go on various other rides. Richie assigns each divergent group a TC employee that knows how to work the ride, and gives them the key for it. They’re down to seven once they get back to El Mexicana: Eddie, Richie, Bev, Stan, Bill, Ben, and Mike. Richie is keeping a distance from Eddie, presumably because he’s still reeling from the surprise frenzied make out attack Eddie had unleashed without warning. Eddie cannot blame him in the slightest for staying away, because with the tumult of desires that has churned up from that brief moment of Richie's lips on his, every time he catches a glimpse of Richie now, dancing around the edge of the fire with a joint in his hand, performing some anecdote for Stan and Mike, an almost uncontrollable urge to leap on him and re-connect their mouths seizes hold. 

He tries his best to listen to what Bev is saying, draped across Bill’s lap beside him. He’s still working his way through his first beer that he'd left here before The Neibolt trip, taking minute sips through an almost closed mouth so that the taste doesn't come through. Even with this method, it's still an awful drink, but at least it's giving him something to do with his hands. 

“Eddie, are you listening to me?” 

Eddie drags his eyes away from Richie, who is laughing obnoxiously loud on the other side of the flames at something Stan is saying. “Hm?” 

Bev rolls her eyes so hard that her head tips back. “Okay, we’re having a chat. Get up.”

“No, wait, I was listening-” Eddie tries to protest, but Bev has already struggled to her feet and begun hauling him up by the arm. 

He goes with her glumly, trailing after her towards a nearby snack stall. She jumps right over the counter when they get there, so Eddie leans over to watch her crouch down to rummage in the storage cupboards.

“What’s the matter?” Eddie asks. 

He prefers to get straight to it with Bev. Her 'chats' are usually code for her needing to say something honest and brutal, therefore it's best to get them over with quickly. “You need to stop fucking around with Richie,” she states, throwing a few packs of Hula Hoops over her shoulder. They land on the counter, some sliding off to the ground by Eddie’s feet. She tosses Eddie a look over her shoulder. “Well, I mean, don’t stop completely. I’m all for you getting your kicks. But you've got to know - he’s really into you.” 

“I know he’s got a crush,” Eddie says, stooping to pick up the fallen Hula Hoops. 

When he rises back up, a Snickers bar hits him in the head. “No, honey,” she says, standing up to place several more candy bars on the counter. “It’s not just a crush. I thought it was. But I’ve never seen him like this. He’s usually a real dick about dating. He’s got a lot of admirers, so he does a lot of fooling around with people and never calling them again. Total fuckboy about the whole thing. A lotta the Turtle Crew have a bone to pick with him about it, girls especially.” She digs into a cupboard above her, pulling out a packet, followed by a rainfall of several more packets. “Aha!” Twizzlers, Eddie notices as they pelt the counter. “My point is, since he saw you, he’s blowing everybody off. He won’t even flirt with other people anymore. When a guy like that is turning down easy, crazy hot girls like Madison McCarthy? You know he's got it bad for someone.” 

“I highly doubt that,” Eddie says, though his heart is pounding as he eyes the Twizzlers. 

She hitches herself back up onto the counter, sending snacks flying as she swings her Docs over the edge. “Help me carry these. What I’m getting at, Eddie my love, is that I know you two have almost certainly macked at least once. I know you pretty well, so I’m fairly sure it hasn’t gone any further because I like to think you’d tell your best friend if you lost your virginity.” She punches him in the arm to hammer this point in. “But if that’s all true...” she raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to dispute it. He just focuses on scraping candy bars into his arms, cheeks hot. She sighs, stuffing packets of Hula Hoops into her oversized jacket pockets. “...Right. Well, it’s safe to say that in that case, Richie is probably on the verge of laying down on the tracks of the Turtle Coaster about now.” 

Eddie shoots her a scornful look. “I think he’ll be okay-”

“Eddie would you shut up and listen to me? You know I’m always right.” 

He shuts up, beginning to sullenly shove the snacks into his pockets. 

“Here’s the elevator pitch: Richie is stupidly crazy for you. You keep getting him all worked up, driving him even more crazy, and then leaving him hanging. It’s not cool. You have to decide what you want. You don’t have to do anything at all with him, of course. That’s completely your call. But you can’t keep doing _this_. It's unkind. He’s gonna break.”

Bev aims him a final stern look, then lets it melt away. She kisses him on the cheek, and his sulk splinters, letting some of the guilt leak through. “I don’t wanna break him,” he murmurs, weakly. 

She pulls him in for a hug; several snack wrappers crinkle and pop. “I know you don’t, honey. It takes a lot to make me feel sorry for Trashmouth Tozier, but the way you’ve strung him up is painful to watch.

“What do you think I should do?” 

“I can’t make the choice for you, honey bun. You wanna get dicked down, then by all means go get him, because he would leap at the chance. If you don’t want that, then tell him it’s over and stop leading him on. One or the other." She gives him a final squeeze. "Now, come eat some salty, sugary goodness.” 

They trek back to the fire, Bev hollering loudly that they’ve brought sustenance, which earns them several cheers. Eddie deposits all the snacks he has onto the floor in a pile with Bev’s, far enough from the fire that they don’t melt, then goes to sit with Stan, who is the only other person who doesn’t dive for them. They chat for a while, but Stan is pretty stoned, and Eddie is extremely distracted trying to weigh up everything Bev said he should weigh up. And then, unhelpfully, Richie takes the seat beside him, making a big show of doing that ‘yawn and stretch’ move to drape his arm over Eddie’s shoulder. He hands Eddie the remains of the beer he’d left in his last seat, and then pulls out a packet of Twizzlers. 

“Rescued these for you,” he says, placing them into Eddie’s lap. “A little bird told me they’re your weakness.” 

Richie’s face is turned towards him, soft and fond in the warm, orange light. His arm curls around Eddie like he can’t help trying to pull him closer. He’d found Eddie’s drink, taken the time to probe Bev about his secret favourite candy and snatched it from the pile before anyone else could. He’s told Eddie secrets he's told nobody else, brought him over to his house despite the shame he holds around it just because Eddie told him he was worried about not having alcohol to bring to a party. Richie has told him countless times that he’s beautiful and smart and funny. He's intelligent, and occasionally so witty it makes Eddie's stomach ache trying to hold in the laughter. He's tall and slender and strong, like a birch tree. Sometimes Eddie looks at him and he's so pretty he thinks he might never be able to stop looking. And he’s an _exorbitantly_ good kisser. 

It takes about a minute, as all of these thoughts settle like the flecks of ash raining down from the sky, for Eddie to finally make his decision. And though his libido has a part in it, Eddie knows it’s not something he’ll change his mind about in the morning. He leans towards Richie, instead of pulling away, like he no doubt expects. He sees the surprise flash over Richie’s face, feels in his shoulder the way his breath catches in his chest, and it’s incredible, to see the impact he has on such a person. 

“Hey, is the aquarium open?” Eddie asks, softly. Even Stan wouldn’t have been able to hear. 

“Err, no,” Richie says, eyes falling to Eddie’s mouth. “But I have the key. Why? You got a hankering to see some jellyfish?” 

Eddie smiles, and something melts in Richie’s expression. “Maybe some turtles.”

“I don’t know if they have turtles,” Richie says, thinking. 

“What?!” Eddie can’t help exclaiming. He pulls back a bit, laughing. “Are you serious? Well, we should go check.” 

Richie laughs too, nodding. “Yeah. Absolutely, of course. We need infinitely more turtles in our lives. Go grab Bev or whoever-”

“No,” Eddie says quickly, and his heart skips a beat. He finds Richie’s hand, hanging over his shoulder, and begins toying with his fingers. “Let’s just go. You and me.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earning myself that explicit rating lol.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments! Really glad you're enjoying it so far xxx

“You must really love turtles,” Richie says as he turns the key in the lock, then opening the aquarium door wide for Eddie to step through. 

The aquarium is actually better than Eddie remembers it being inside. He hasn’t set foot in it for years, because in the daytime it’s rammed with kids pressing their grubby faces to the glass, and the mothers of those toddlers with their obnoxiously wide strollers, blocking the view of the animals. But at night, lit up cerulean by the lights in the tanks, there’s an arcane, submersive atmosphere. Like what Eddie imagines being on a submarine would feel like, silently floating down at the bottom of the ocean, the dense silence of the deep sea like a presence in the confined space with you at all times. Water trickles somewhere far off, down one of the corridors that leads off from this main room. 

Eddie walks right up to the glass of the nearest tank, peering in at the shimmering fish, just because he can. 

“Yeah, they’re my favourite animal,” Eddie replies. “That’s why I love your hat so much.”

“Aw man, you could've told me that before I left it back in Mexico.” 

Eddie turns to him, rolling his eyes. “Come on, if we don’t find a real live turtle in here I’m suing you.”

"Me?" Richie exclaims, hurrying towards him as he starts off. 

"Yes, you. You're a representative of the place." 

"I prefer the term 'mascot'." 

Eddie tries not to smile because it would give him too much satisfaction, and he's going to get enough of that anyway if Eddie has his way. They walk on, their footsteps echoing loudly off the tiled floor. The next room they come to is one of those kiddie-rigged exhibits, with lots of fake tanks displaying plastic fish and their cross-sections, interactive panels where buttons can be pushed to produce ocean facts read in Mickey Mouse-ish voices. Richie makes the error of pushing one such button on a placard about jellyfish, and the broken, discordant voice that booms out has them clapping their hands over their ears, sprinting into the next room. 

They’re both laughing hysterically by the time they get there, their adrenaline spiked by the unexpected jolt of broken noise and subsequent urge to flee, which pierces a good deal of the tension in the air. Eddie’s not sure what Richie thinks they’re doing in here, but he _is_ sure that Richie has noticed there’s an atmosphere between them. It's not a difficult thing to notice, given that they spent the two minutes or so that their friends screamed around a rollercoaster track mapping the insides of one another's mouths, and then, when aforementioned friends returned, pretended like it didn't happen. Eddie had kind of hoped, honestly, that Richie would just try and kiss him again as soon as the door of the aquarium closed behind them, but he’s maintaining an annoyingly respectful distance as they stroll through the rooms, gawping into tanks and messing around with the faded, falling apart exhibits. It's the chivalrous side of Richie that Eddie has noticed before - the Richie that holds open doors for him, and scoops him off the floor into his arms when he's swooned like a broad-rimmed hat-wearing maiden in a Clint Eastwood cowboy flick - and it's definitely an intriguing, if not endearing part of him. But it's also a part of him that Eddie wants Richie to shove away for the time being, so that he can let out the other side of himself, the side that murmurs low, into his ear, _"please let me take you upstairs"_. 

Despite Eddie's frustration about this however, they are having a good time. Being in such a place with Richie is silly and fun, because Richie has a knack for making everything seem fun, even when the stimulus is half broken and not very good to begin with, which is probably why the TC management people have simply bumped him around from job to job instead of outright firing him. So Eddie is entertained, larking about with Richie, letting himself laugh at the dumb things he says, the accents he puts on, the shadow puppetry he performs in the tanks. But he's also on edge, because he’s brought Richie in here for a reason. He wishes he’d finished the last of that beer back at the fire, even if it did make him want to retch. 

Eventually, they reach a circular room with floor-to-ceiling glass making up a big chunk of the wall - an enormous window into the largest tank, where the most exotic salt water sea creatures are kept. It's an imposing room, stunning them both into silence. Richie moves off to read something on a nearby plaque, so Eddie walks right up to the middle of the glass, dwarfed by the vastness, and stares. Nurse sharks swim by, level with his face, their flat, dull eyes unfocused. Shoals of iridescent fish explode out of rocks, ducking and weaving in beautiful patterns. Crabs twitch their way along the sand. Jellyfish the size of his pinky nail blob gently around him. 

He turns to call Richie over, only for his mouth to snap closed when he sees that Richie has his phone held up in front of his face, quite obviously snapping pictures of him. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound it. “You just look…” he shrugs, holding out the phone. “See for yourself.” 

Eddie walks over, dubious, but peers at Richie’s phone screen while he swipes through the photos. All except the last two are just of Eddie’s back, his legs slightly apart, his head tipped up to take in the enormity of what’s in front of him. He’s washed in aquamarine, the ripples of water creating a wave of patterns over his silhouette. It’s a great few photos, but Eddie still turns his face to Richie's, unsure. 

“What are you gonna do with those?” 

Richie laughs. “Wank bank.” 

Eddie pushes him lightly in the chest. “C’mon, seriously.” 

“I dunno,” he says, pocketing the phone again. He fidgets, eyes darting around the room. He, too, is coated in the shifting blue filter; he looks radiant, tall and willowy, in comparison to the way the photo had portrayed Eddie - drowned by the hugeness. “I’ll print one out, stick it in my locker like we’re in a 90’s high school TV show.” He grins, crookedly. “Hey, guess what?” 

“What?” Eddie whispers. It just feels like he should whisper, in a place like this. 

“There’s a turtle in that tank,” Richie whispers back, then takes him by the hand and leads him over to the sign he’d been reading. 

Maturin | Marine Turtle 

_Estimated to be about 70 years old, Maturin the turtle is at the heart of the ancient Native American legend in Derry, upon which Turtle Cove was founded. Believed by the_ _Shokopiwah tribe to have been a form of God, the turtle is a sacred symbol of their mythology. Many still believe that Maturin is able to grant wishes to those who visit him at Turtle Cove aquarium. To try out your luck, sit before the tank, wait for him to appear, then close your eyes and make your wish._

“We gotta make a wish,” Richie enthuses, already dragging Eddie over to the bench in front of the tank, which is more of a squat, padded oblong, about as wide and long as Bev's truck.

It’s big enough that they could sit either end and not be able to spit on each other, but Richie settles them both in the centre, his left leg pressed to Eddie’s right. “This is dumb,” Eddie states, mostly to cement the point that he does not believe in superstitions or magical turtles. Richie just shoots him a grin, and points excitedly to the tank when Maturin swims gracefully by. His bulging, dark eye clocks them both with disinterest, and with a casual push of his speckled flippers, he swims out of sight again. 

“Well, that was disappoint-” 

“Shh! Make a wish, numbnuts,” Richie urges. 

When Eddie turns to look, his eyes are squeezed shut. It’s cute. Eddie gets an idea, and it almost paralyses him with fear to even think it, but there’s a serious time constraint because Richie, the man with the attention span of a two year old, will surely not be able to keep his eyes closed for long. So Eddie shoves down his anxiety and stands, quietly. 

“What are you wishing for?” Eddie asks, leaning close enough still that it sounds like he’s sat beside him. 

“Hookers, blow, suitcases full o’cash.”

“Not sure Maturin grants wishes for Scarface wannabes,” Eddie says, toeing off his shoes.

“No? Didn't realise you were his PR guy.” Richie asks, smiling. “Guess it’ll have to be somethin’ else then.” 

“You need any ideas?” Eddie asks, heart pounding as he pulls off his polo shirt. He throws it to the bench, then starts on his shorts, unbuckling the belt bag first, praying that Richie has a few more seconds of obedience left in him. "Or do you have something in mind?"

“I’ve got something I want, yeah,” Richie answers, a little croaky. 

His fingers are tapping nervously on the edge of the bench, Eddie notices, but doesn’t have time to dwell on the reasons why. Now clad in just his underwear, and too late to pull everything back on, Eddie uses what's left of his scant confidence to propel himself forward into the next stage of his impulsive plan. He sits himself into Richie’s lap, knees on either side of his hips again, just as they’d been in the swivel chair, except this bench has a lot more wiggle room. Richie’s eyes fly open the moment Eddie’s ass hits his thighs. His blink of sheer astonishment is almost comical, but Eddie suppresses the laugh that threatens to bubble up. He has to follow this all the way through now. There'd be no coming back from it if he fucked it up by giggling like a schoolgirl. 

“Fuck,” Richie utters, his eyes dropping immediately to Eddie’s near-naked body. He throws a brief glance over Eddie’s shoulder, towards the tank. “Maturin, you son of a bitch. I owe you one. My wishes never come true.”

Eddie pulls his face back by the chin, chuckling. “Shut up. Kiss me.”

“Wow, um. Yeah, I can… I can definitely do that.” He does so, sealing his mouth over Eddie’s just as eagerly as he had before in The Neibolt control booth. The difference is that his hands aren’t quite so bold in their exploration this time, instead dancing over the bare, cool skin covering Eddie’s ribs, fluttery and nervous. So Eddie grabs hold of them and moves them to his ass, which he has reason to believe is their favoured place, and Richie rewards him with a groan and a hard squeeze. “Um,” he murmurs against Eddie’s mouth after a minute or so, “Eds, you’re awfully underdressed for an innocent make out session.”

Eddie flicks him in the forehead. “So stop playing innocent.” 

Richie makes an odd, swallowy sort of sound, then takes hold of Eddie’s shoulders, moving him backward a bit. This stops the kissing from continuing, which makes Eddie pout. 

“Look, Eds, I’ve lost all my cool cards over here,” Richie tells him in a rush, “I’m gonna lay it out straight. I want you so bad I’m about to throw myself in the shark tank. I will happily, _happily_ ravish you right here and now, but I need to make sure you really want that too.” 

“Richie,” Eddie says, teeth gritted, "I didn't, shockingly, ask you to take me into a deserted aquarium to find a fucking turtle. There are enough turtles in this place. I don't need to see another one." 

"Oh," is all Richie can apparently manage in response. "Then why...?"

"Oh my God," Eddie says, incredulous. “Why did I want to get you alone after we made out feverishly on a control panel? Why did I call you in the middle of the night to jerk off to the sound of your voice? Why am I literally _naked_ on top of you right now? I know you're not dumb, Richie. Work it out.” 

“You... wanna piece of this?" Richie asks, voice high and tinny.

Eddie has to fight an urge to clamber off him. He sighs. "Unfortunately, yes."

"That is… that is awesome news,” Richie says, then hauls Eddie to one side, pushing him down flat on his back across the padded bench, before leaning over to kiss him. A hand either side of Eddie’s head to support himself, Richie drapes his whole, long, noodly body over him, so Eddie reaches up and winds his arms around Richie’s neck. 

With the adrenaline flooding through him from being so uncharacteristically bold - Bev will never believe that he, Eddie Kaspbrak, climbed into Richie’s lap in just his underwear to initiate sex - everything feels heightened, crisp. His skin almost hurts where Richie touches it, from the air-conditioned room and the oversensitivity. Richie lays down pretty much on top of him, and the heat of his body, even through the clothes Richie still has on, is glorious. He smells so good, musky, like the weed he’s been smoking, and the earthen cologne Eddie caught a whiff of earlier. 

Richie’s hands wander freely now, touching everywhere he can reach - and not, as Eddie expects, diving straight for the more traditional areas. He smooths those big hands over Eddie’s upper chest, down his arms, trails fingers over the bumps of his ribs. As though his fingers are igniting sparks beneath Eddie’s skin, Eddie arches into the touch, letting whimpers escape into Richie’s mouth as they continue kissing. 

“You drive me so fucking nuts, Eddie,” Richie says, low, rough, right into Eddie’s ear. It sends a shiver undulating through his whole body, head to toe. “Tell me what you want. Anything at all. I wanna make you happy.” 

Thrown by the demand, impossibly hot though it is, Eddie’s mind goes blank. He’s never given much thought to what he might want, particularly, from this - past the inevitable orgasm. What’s preoccupied his thoughts most, honestly, is the idea of Richie naked, kissing and touching him, when he’s also naked. But this is not what Richie’s after in terms of an explicit answer, so Eddie thinks back to that phone call a few nights ago, and the things that Richie had said he wanted to do, if he were given the chance. They’d all sounded pretty good. 

“I want you to do all the things you said you wanted to do,” Eddie gets out, voice trembling. “On the phone.” 

Richie leans back, quirking a smile. He lets his eyes travel freely over Eddie’s body, like it’s a treat just to look; Eddie knows that an ugly, splotchy flush is undoubtedly appearing across his chest, but Richie only passes a hand across his skin, light and reverent. Like it's a pretty, decorative pattern, rather than a result of his body's inability to handle even a flicker of embarrassment. 

“Yeah?” Richie asks, eyes flashing back up to meet his. His hand wanders lower, fingers teasing back and forth across the waistband of his underwear. “You want me to use my mouth, angel? That’s what I said I’d do, isn’t it?” 

Eddie nods, feeling more than a little scared by the idea. He trusts Richie though, weird as that thought is when it arrives in front of him. He’s given Eddie no reason not to trust him, and plenty of examples of consideration, compassion, and concern for Eddie’s wellbeing. 

“Y-yeah,” Eddie whispers, swallowing. 

Richie’s fingers trail over the bump of his erection, beginning to strain against the elasticated fabric of his boxer briefs. He lets out a sigh as he touches there, like he’s been waiting for the chance to press one fingertip to the outline of Eddie's dick, even with an opaque covering of Target brand underwear in the way. He pinches the tip of Eddie’s dick through the material, gently, but with the confidence of a man that knows how it will make Eddie twitch and gasp, which he does, toes curling against the lip of the bench. 

“I can do that, baby,” Richie tells him softly, then removes his hand, and slides off the bench to kneel on the floor. He hooks his hands beneath Eddie's knees and with one incredibly arousing yank, tugs Eddie's whole body forwards, until his legs come off the end of the bench, his toes just reaching the floor. Richie settles himself happily in the space between Eddie’s open thighs. He reaches up to hook his fingers into the elastic waistband, and in another sharp, fluid motion, pulls the underwear all the way down Eddie’s thighs, over his knees, until they’re bunched at his ankles. “Lift your foot.” 

Eddie does so, and Richie carefully unhooks the boxer briefs, then does the same to the other side. He gets right up on his knees, which makes Eddie worry that he'll bruise because the floor is hard tile, and spreads his hands over Eddie’s thighs. Eddie props himself up on his elbows to look, and Richie sends him a wicked smile, then wraps his hand around the base of Eddie’s dick. 

“Fuck,” Richie mutters to himself, staring at his own hand like he can’t quite believe it. As he slides his fist up and down, marvelling, he says: “You wanna let me do this, Eds? Or do you wanna fuck my mouth?” 

The question makes Eddie’s toes curl again. “You can do it,” he squeaks. Richie’s responding smile is beaming. He leans forwards, getting straight to it, but Eddie holds out a hand. “Wait,” he says, and Richie pulls back at once, “can you take your shirt off?”

Richie glances down, like he’s only just remembered he has it on. “Yeah, of course. Why aren’t I a lot more naked?” 

“A question that’s been plaguing me for some minutes.” 

Richie snorts with laughter. “Perv,” he says, shrugging off his geometric shirt and then yanking the TC polo over his head. He’s lean and gorgeous beneath; Eddie had seen him semi-topless before, when he wore the cowboy outfit, but this is different. Now he’s tinted turquoise, bathed in glossy, dappled light. His muscles shift and stretch as he moves back in towards Eddie, eyes glinting in the half-light. “Better?”

“Much,” Eddie replies, honestly. 

Impatient from all the hold ups, Richie wastes no more time getting on with things. He takes him in hand again, eyes locked with Eddie’s, and arches forwards, closing his mouth over the tip of Eddie’s cock. The point of his tongue swirls around the head, and Eddie instantly loses the ability to breathe normally. His knees fold in half, one leg draping over Richie’s shoulder, so his heel rests in the middle of his spine. 

His fingernails dig into the pleather of the bench he’s sprawled out on, trying to cling to some kind of control as the pleasure shoots through him. Richie’s tongue knows what it’s doing - it tastes him gently, relentlessly, travelling along the seams of his dick, coaxing nerve endings Eddie has never known about into vibrant, pulsing life. He makes all sorts of embarrassing sounds, the kind of sounds that, when he heard them emulated in awkward movie sex scenes, he was sure he'd never make. They only get worse when Richie’s whole fucking mouth sinks down onto him, swallowing so much of him that Eddie’s certain he must be about to choke. He forces his hips to stay still for fear of doing exactly this, but resisting the urge to move, to thrust into the sensation, is torture. 

“Fuck, Richie,” Eddie moans - the sound of his name makes him slide off with a pop. 

“Yep?” 

Eddie can only give him the weakest of glares. “Oh my God,” he says, “please don’t stop.” 

The jesting smile on Richie’s face falters, briefly, and something primal flashes in his eyes. He swallows, nodding, his fingers gripping tighter to the flesh of Eddie’s thighs as he sinks back down, taking Eddie just as far into his mouth, and then rising up again, his plush lips dragging over the thin, damp skin. Eddie’s back arches, groaning, and then Richie lowers back down again, building a steady rhythm that obliterates thought from Eddie’s mind. He winds a hand into the mop of hair he can see from this position, fingers tangling into the locks. Richie moans when he does this, and the vibrations have Eddie near spasming. He can feel the build of his orgasm, just as intense as he had felt it the other night on the phone, so he tries to verbalise his concern. 

“Richie,” he breathes, “Richie, I’m gonna come. S-stop, I’ll… I’ll…” 

There’s no way Richie doesn’t hear him, but he seems to have no intention of heeding Eddie’s warning. He speeds up his pace, in fact, hands working their way between the bench and Eddie's ass to pull him even closer; the squeeze of Richie’s big hands on his butt cheeks on top of everything else is too much for Eddie’s tightly wound sensitivity. He comes with a loud, croaky moan, hips twisting left and right, his hand squeezing a chunk of Richie’s hair. 

Richie doesn’t pull off him until he’s stopped twitching, and even then it’s slow, reluctant, like he’s been having just as much of a good time down there as Eddie has. Eddie sends him a look that he imagines is something like ‘awestruck’, and Richie chuckles at it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans in and presses a few kisses to the inside of Eddie’s thighs, nuzzling in there for a few moments before he climbs back up onto the bench. 

“I’m gonna go ahead and guess that you’d rather die than kiss me right now,” Richie says, quite correctly. 

“Sorry, but yeah, that’s out.” Eddie has the surreal urge to cover himself from Richie’s stare; he knows he’s red, patchy, sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat. It can’t be alluring at all, but Richie regards him like a painting, swirling the tips of his fingers over Eddie’s hot, damp skin. The gentle touch spurs a weird, bashful feeling in Eddie's sternum, making him want to flutter his lashes and look away. To dispel it, he says, “I have a hair-triggered gross-out reflex.” 

“What if I kiss you here?” Richie asks, then drops his lips, softly, to Eddie’s forehead. 

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed. The bashful coyness increasing tenfold. “Richie,” he murmurs, rolling into him. “Be more naked. Now.” 

“Demanding,” Richie says against his forehead, but makes no move to comply. 

So, Eddie takes matters in his own hands. He works his hands between them, finding the front of Richie’s ill-fitting jeans and tugging open the button. They're loose enough that he doesn't need to bother with the zipper. Richie sucks a breath in through his teeth, one hand gripping Eddie’s upper arm as Eddie deftly inserts his hand in the space he's found. He can’t seem to look away from Eddie’s eyes, which is embarrassing, so Eddie pushes his face into Richie’s neck, kissing against the lightly stubbled skin. It requires a push, a jump over an internal hurdle, to plunge his hand into the unknown depths that lie beneath Richie’s jeans, but he’s glad he does it. The damp material stretched over what is clearly an erect penis inside Richie’s Y-fronts should repulse him, probably would have once, before Richie Tozier waltzed into Eddie's life and smashed apart his die-hard opinion that sex is gross and messy and to be avoided until absolutely necessary. Now, all Eddie can think as he traces along the long, curved outline of Richie’s erection is: 

_This is for me. This is what happens when he thinks of me. When he touches me._

He’s leaning in before the thought has finished forming, pushing their mouths together. Richie jerks back from him, wincing, anticipating Eddie’s disgust. Eddie pauses too, remembering why he hadn't wanted to do that a moment ago, and waiting for the horror to surge up, because he _can_ taste a salty, coppery film on Richie’s lips. But the disgust keeps at bay, and Eddie's stomach remains un-nauseated. 

“That’s… odd,” Eddie whispers, and then kisses him again. 

It no longer seems gross, to taste himself in this way. It seems natural that they’d share this. Richie is hesitant at first, rightly waiting for what he no doubt suspects will be Eddie’s belated freak out, but when it doesn’t happen, he melts into it, letting Eddie’s tongue lick into his mouth, explore him in a way he never thought he’d want to. Eddie moves his hand over the bulge in Richie’s underwear, stilted and awkward because he’s trapped between the layers, not to mention he's never done this to anyone else, and only to himself a few times, and only once successfully. But Richie makes soft, fractured noises like Eddie's clumsy fingers over his underpants are the most wonderful thing he's ever felt. His fingers grip hard around Eddie’s arm. 

“Oh, God,” he mutters, just as Eddie gets a little braver, lets his thumb trace over the spot he’s pretty sure marks the head of Richie’s dick. 

It’s this utterance that spurs Eddie’s next request, which spills out of his mouth before he can get reins on it. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, and Richie groans. “Please,” Eddie adds, because he’s not a heathen. 

Richie pulls his hand, gently, out of his pants, then takes him by both wrists. He’s wearing a debauched look, his eyes tortured. “Jesus, Eds. Are you trying to kill me? Sacrifice me for the turtle God?” 

“You don’t want to?”

“Don’t _want_ \- holy- Okay. Look, we can’t- we can’t do that right now, baby. That does _not_ mean I don’t want to. Fuck, I have never, and will never, want anything more than that, but-”

“Then why can't you?” Eddie demands, unable to help the petulant note coming out in his tone. 

In his mind, this is a once in a blue moon opportunity. Eddie lives with the most hyper-vigilant, sex-phobic woman on the planet. Richie works every day in this hell hole, and goes home to a mansion literally gated to keep people out. Right now, they’re alone, with hours to play with, in a place where nobody is likely discover them. Eddie is loose and confident, thanks to three-quarters of a beer and a fantastic orgasm. Richie looks like some kind of Siren sea-God, shirtless and heavy-lidded. They both want this very much. Now is the time, surely. 

“Because, angel,” Richie says sadly, “we don’t have… the right stuff.” 

He kisses Eddie’s knuckles, pityingly. 

Eddie's mind is whirring. “Like… a condom?” 

“N-no,” Richie says with a shaky laugh, “I, uh, I have a condom.”

“Then what?” 

“We’d need some lube,” Richie tells him slowly, watching his face. “And I doubt you’ve got that stashed away in your fanny pack-”

“Oh,” Eddie says, suddenly glum with defeat. “Do we really need it?”

“Yes,” Richie says firmly. “I’m guessing you’ve never done that?”

Eddie shakes his head, colouring. “But-”

“Yeah, no way are we doing that without a lot of lube then, angel. I’m not hurting you.”

Something flickers in Eddie’s belly at the defiant way Richie's states that. “I should have thought about it.”

“Did you know this was gonna happen when you snuck out of your mom's house?” Richie asks, teasingly. "'Cause if I'd had any clue I'd be here this morning, I'd have definitely shaved my 2-day beard. Your stubble burn is gonna be, like-"

“I have vaseline in my fanny pack,” Eddie says, suddenly remembering, “but I’m guessing that won’t work.”

Richie’s hand has stilled on Eddie’s stomach. “Err. What? You have… vaseline?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “of course. For my lips. You have to be careful of them drying out in summer-”

“Show me?” Richie squeaks. 

Eddie frowns, but rolls over to fish his belt bag from where he’d dropped it to the floor with his shorts. He pulls out the tub of vaseline, a relatively new one he’d bought at the pharmacy the other day, and hands it to Richie. 

Richie twists off the cap and looks inside, swallowing. “Um. Yeah. This’ll work.” 

“Wait, really?” 

Eddie’s stomach somersaults forwards. 

“Do you really wanna do th-”

“Yes,” Eddie answers quickly. 

Richie nods for a good ten seconds, still staring into the pot, seeming to gather himself together. “Okay," he says eventually. "Okay. I’m gonna kiss you again now.” 

He does so, rolling on top of Eddie so their bodies align; already Eddie can feel his own arousal perking up just from the weight of Richie on top of him, his long-neglected eighteen-year-old hormones going nuts on him now that they're finally getting some attention. Richie kisses along his neck again, which is rapidly becoming one of Eddie’s favourite things _ever_ , and then he leans away, straddling Eddie’s hips as he fumbles with the little tub of vaseline. His jeans are still open at the fly from where Eddie accosted him, exposing an indecent amount of pelvic area, the dark hair like pulled cotton leading down to the depths within. It’s here that Eddie’s eyes are trained when Richie tells him to relax, putting aside the tub for now. Two of his fingers are generously smeared with vaseline, enough of it there to protect the lips of a hundred people from the dangerous UV rays, probably. Eddie is equal parts fascinated and nervous as Richie settles into the space between his legs, folded up at the knees.

“I am so glad I wore contacts today,” Richie murmurs, then slips his slick fingers between Eddie’s cheeks. 

Eddie bites his lip, trying to focus on Richie’s words, and not the warm, slippery digit pressing against him in such an intimate place. “I- I like your glasses,” he chokes out. “You’re so annoying. Who looks good both ways?”

Richie laughs, but it’s strained. His free hand is splayed on the underside of Eddie’s thigh, pressing it down, folding Eddie in half for better access. “They get in the way,” he says, the pad of his index finger circling the divot of Eddie’s hole. “I’d have to take them off. And I wanna see.” 

It’s hard to concentrate on anything whilst Richie’s finger swirls against him, but Eddie manages to nod, breathless already. His cock has swelled all the way back up, now lying full and hard against his stomach. True to his word, Richie is staring, unbroken, at the spot where his finger strokes the puckered skin. 

“Richie,” Eddie pleads when it gets too much. 

Richie breaks his stare to glance up, meeting Eddie’s eyes. “Relax, okay? I’m gonna do this real slow.”

The news is both torturous and exciting. In the back of his mind, he vaguely recalls that, during their late night phone call, Richie had said he’d spend “hours” opening him up if he got the chance. He sincerely hopes that this was an exaggeration, because they’ve barely even started this process and Eddie is already concerned for his sanity. He tries to breathe slowly, deeply, the way he does to stave off panic attacks. He closes his eyes as the tip of Richie’s finger inches past the rim of his asshole, pushing firmly, but gradually. Richie’s other hand is still clutching his thigh, the tight grip giving away his own feelings of need. Eddie gasps out when Richie’s finger slides all the way in, feeling his internal muscles contract, keeping it locked there while he adjusts to the intrusion. 

“You okay?” Richie asks. His voice has a husk to it. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Eddie says quickly, “don’t stop.” 

It doesn’t hurt, but the sensation is peculiar. Richie drags the finger out a little, then plunges it back in, testing. Now that he’s getting used to the feel of it, Eddie feels himself relax, his legs opening wider. He reaches for Richie’s other hand, which Richie takes at once, slotting their fingers together and squeezing. 

“I’m gonna add another finger to the mix,” Richie tells him, “just tell me if it’s too much, okay?” 

“You don’t need to be so careful,” Eddie says, “I’m not gonna break.” 

Unexpectedly, Richie leans forward to drop a kiss to Eddie’s knee. “I _really_ want this to be good for you. Let me take you apart.” 

It’s all Eddie can do to nod and try to relax as much as possible, which takes a fair amount of concentration when Richie starts slipping more fingers into him. First two, working in and out, then scissoring a few centimetres apart. Then a third finger, which does create a faint burn, but Eddie’s not surprised by it, and it’s far from unpleasant. In fact, there’s a definite, peripheral pleasure dancing along behind each push of Richie’s fingers - a taste of what lies on the horizon. There’s something wicked, and incredibly satisfying, about having even this small part of Richie so deeply entwined with him; even the thought has Eddie biting his lip, eyes closed. It’s at this point that Richie leans over Eddie again so they can make out, spreading and thrusting those three fingers all the while. 

Eddie likes this arrangement a lot, so he slides his hands into Richie’s hair, getting really into the feel of being stretched open, when Richie murmurs something Eddie doesn’t catch, then does something with his fingers. He just seems to curl them slightly, right at the point they’re as deep as they can be, but they brush over a place, high up in the caverns of Eddie’s inner walls, that he hadn’t known would feel so spectacular. It hits him so suddenly that Eddie’s whole body jerks, and his fingers tug on the roots of Richie’s hair. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, and Richie does it again, kissing him hard.

Eddie has no way to prepare before Richie is all the way on top of him, pressing him down into the bench as he deepens the kiss, his hand movements speeding up. Again and again he pushes his fingertips against that spot, until Eddie is keening into his mouth, arms locked around his bare shoulders for something to hang onto while his body splits apart.

“Oh, God, fuck,” Eddie moans when Richie’s mouth slides down to his neck. “Richie…”

Still, Richie continues to probe for that particular place, relentless and unfaltering while he trails hot, toothy kisses down Eddie’s throat. There’ll be marks there, Eddie thinks, but can’t bring himself to care. 

“You’re so goddamn hot,” Richie groans into his ear. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, Eds. You want that?”

“Yeah,” Eddie sobs, pulling his head back by a chunk of his hair so he can look at him. “Yes, do it, please.” 

“Do what?” Richie asks with a wry smile, drawing his fingers free at last. He’s propped up on one elbow now, gazing mischievously down into Eddie’s raw, open face. “C’mon, say it for me, angel. Please.”

Eddie lets out a shaky sigh, a hand sliding down to the back of Richie’s neck. He pulls him close, so their lips brush. “Please fuck me. I want you so much.” 

Richie’s eyes flutter closed for a moment. He breathes out hard, then leans away, drawing Eddie’s hands from his neck and sitting up. He works his jeans down his thighs, struggling with getting them all the way off, so Eddie helps as best he can, feeling fluttery and strange, in a feverish trance of pleasure, dumb with anticipation for more. When he’s down to his underwear at last - surprisingly white, well-fitting Y-fronts with orange piping along the seams - he curses, grabbing his jeans back off the floor and digging in one of the pockets. He pulls out his wallet and retrieves a silver condom packet, then turns back to Eddie with a coy smile. 

“I’m a safety girl,” he quips. 

“Take your pants off,” is Eddie’s only available response. 

Richie salutes him with the condom packet, and for a brief, throwaway moment, Eddie considers kicking him off the bench for being an idiot. But he’s quickly distracted by the sight of Richie’s dick, in full view once Richie takes his underwear off. He’s so hard that Eddie’s surprised he’s got the coherency of mind to make jokes and _Pretty Woman_ references. The tip of his long, swollen cock is leaking, a bubble of clear moisture trickling out. His dick is bigger than Eddie’s, but he feels no sense of inequality. The only gut reaction he has, watching Richie roll on a condom, is unbridled want. 

He wants all of it for himself, to touch, to experiment with, to slide into himself and watch the feeling it gives Richie explode in the depths of his eyes. Condom on, Richie gives him a once over, like he’s checking that Eddie is still willing and ready. Eddie tries to smile, but even his face muscles have weakened, so he just reaches out his hands for Richie instead, coaxing him back in. Richie shuffles up into the ‘V’ of Eddie’s widely spread legs again, hands settling on Eddie’s waist, where his fast, nervous breaths are making his ribcage expand and contract rapidly. He kisses Eddie, deeply, passionately; Eddie can feel the blunt head of his dick pressing up against his hole, and he groans, shimmering with excitement. 

“Please,” he mutters, hooking a leg over Richie’s hip, “please, come on, I want it-”

“Fuck, fuck, okay…” Richie says, chuckling. “You gotta take it easy with the begging, sweetheart. I’m already putting everything I have into not coming the second I get inside you.” 

Eddie flushes, harder than he already is, and pushes the hair off Richie’s face. “You said you’d make it good, asshole. So shut up and fuck me already.”

“Ah, there’s my favourite little brat,” Richie says with a grin, then reaches down between them, and guides his dick into place as he pushes his hips forwards. 

His cock is, undoubtedly, more of a stretch to accommodate than his fingers had been. It takes some serious focus on Eddie’s part to un-tense himself enough to let him push in, but Richie goes very slow, taking lots of pauses, checking in with Eddie every few seconds to make sure he’s okay. Eddie can’t verbally confirm his okay-ness, but he nods emphatically whenever he’s adjusted enough, and the pain ebbs to more of an ache. It hurts more than he would have liked it to, but on the whole it’s bearable, and doesn’t last long, and then, eventually, it’s just glorious. 

He feels their skin connect, feels the bristles of Richie’s pubic hair against him, and he knows Richie has sunk all the way into him. Eddie’s head tips back, relishing the feeling of being so deeply full, and Richie takes the opportunity to mouth along the arch of his throat. He’s still for a while, letting Eddie’s body relax around him, but at length he seems to have to move - Eddie cannot blame him. He’s been insanely patient, and he must be nearing the end of his tether. He draws his hips back just a short way, tentatively thrusting back in. At once, sparks shoot through Eddie’s groin; his dick, untouched for some time now, twitches in eagerness. Eddie pushes their mouths together, and says, “again.” 

It takes them a minute or so to get into a rhythm, Eddie wincing in pain if Richie goes too hard, Richie slipping out altogether if he draws back too far. But after a while, Richie gets his hands beneath Eddie’s thighs, angling him just right so he can slide in perfectly, his cock nudging right up against his prostate. It’s sudden, and delicious, and Eddie moans so loud he probably scares the fish. 

“Fuck,” Richie mutters. “There, I’m guessing?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie manages, grabbing his hand for something to squeeze. “Right there. Keep going. It’s so good.” 

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, then thrusts back into him with confidence. Eddie squirms, crying out as the shockwave of pleasure hurtles through him. “You’re fucking unbelievable, Eds. You feel… you feel amazing.” 

There’s not much Richie can do except get it right, then. He knows what he’s doing, that’s evident, but Eddie can’t think about why that might be, let alone care. The things Richie is doing to his insides are indescribable; he feels as though he’s being ignited from within, like Richie has found some secret switch to electrify every bundle of nerves in his body. His thrusts are sure and deep, perfectly directed to that one sweet spot that has Eddie writhing beneath him. He drapes himself over Eddie’s body, hoisting his left leg over one of his shoulders - Eddie wasn’t even aware he could be that flexible - and kissing him at the same time. After some time, once Eddie has long ago floated out into the deep, endless ocean of his own ecstasy, Richie reaches between their bodies and wraps his hand around Eddie’s cock. It takes just a few messy, jerky pulls before Eddie slams back into shore, hard, and comes so instantaneously that his vision whites out. 

He clings to Richie as it happens, arms around his neck, and sobs his release into the space between his shoulder and neck. Richie doesn’t stop thrusting into him the whole time, which makes the orgasm seem to last hours. When it finally recedes, Eddie flops, spent, just in time to watch the spectacular sight of Richie unravelling above him. He tries to hold it together, Eddie can see it, but the ferocity of his own orgasm must smash his will to pieces. His final thrust is hard, so deep Eddie can feel his bones rattle, but then he curls into Eddie, mouth hot and open against Eddie's jaw while he rides out the waves of pleasure.

When it’s over, Richie eases himself out of Eddie, and rolls to one side of him, an arm flung over his sweaty face, breathing hard. “God fucking damn.”

“Turtle-icious,” Eddie replies, and Richie laughs so hard it seems to pain him, because he groans in complaint. 

“Don’t,” he begs, rolling onto his side to look Eddie in the eye. “I’m wounded. You’ve broken me.” 

“Me?” Eddie asks, affronted. “You did all the work. If you threw your freakishly long back out it’s your own damn fault.” 

Richie smiles so wide it’s as if Eddie just spouted a love confession. “It was great for me too, Eds.” 

Eddie sighs, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. Richie looks so beautiful like this - stripped of his usual masks of dumb outfits and stupid Voices. He’s shiny with sweat, his licks of hair sticking to his forehead, and his pupils are blown so wide it looks like he’s snorted several lines, but he’s undeniably gorgeous, even so. He kisses Richie before he can think about it too much, brief and chaste, but enough for that big, beaming smile to grow even more brilliant. 

“D’you think the turtle saw all that?” Eddie asks. 

Richie’s gaze slides over his shoulder to where the tank is. “He definitely seems like the voyeur type. Why? You like an audience?” 

Eddie kicks him in the shin, and Richie loudly complains, but then kisses him, in a way that seems to sort of burst out of him, uncontrollably. Eddie lets it happen, his body slack and malleable to Richie’s touch now, but the wonder of it all remains. He presses three fingers against Richie’s mouth.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Why do you want me when I’m mean to you?” 

Richie flops down onto his side, his hand caressing Eddie’s jaw. “You’re the only person I know who does that. Everyone is so boring. They don’t spar with me like you do. I love that you call me out for my shit when everyone else just rolls their eyes or beep-beeps me.”

“Beep-beeps you?” 

Richie laughs. “Yeah. Bill made it up. People yell ‘beep beep’ at me when I’m pushing things too far.” 

“I’ll have to remember that.” 

“Well you just tell me to go fuck myself,” Richie says, sliding an arm over his stomach. “Which works as well, but does have the added effect of making me want to fuck you.” 

“Mission accomplished.”

Richie presses soft, warm lips to his shoulder. “Sorry, but that’s not a want that’s gonna go away.”

“In that case, go fuck yourself.”

Richie growls, flipping over to pin him to the bench, and Eddie laughs, loud and uninhibited, and they don’t manage to stop kissing for some time after that. 

Eventually, once the lingering high of the orgasm is all but gone, leaving in its wake a pleasant, excitable afterglow, it occurs to Eddie that inside the dark, windowless aquarium with its thick planes of glass and tons of unheated water beyond - it’s actually quite cold in here. And he’s naked. When he mentions this to Richie, whose has the same patina of goosebumps but appears not to have noticed them, Richie only pulls him tighter into his arms. It’s cute, but it doesn’t do a lot to make Eddie warmer. 

“I was kind of meaning maybe we should put our clothes back on,” Eddie says.

“Pass.” 

“We do have to do that eventually. For one thing, there’ll be kids in here in a few hours.” 

“So what? The fish are all naked.”

It’s this ridiculous response that prompts Eddie into the knowledge that he must be the one to make the difficult and unpleasant move towards re-dressing. Richie complains with a lot of wordless, sulky noises, clinging to him and trying to drag him back down when he sits up, but eventually relents. He doesn’t join Eddie in gathering his clothes however, instead choosing to watch, leisurely, reclined on the bench, while Eddie pulls on underwear and shorts, threads his belt bag back through the loops. 

“Quit staring at me,” Eddie says, but his bark has lost a good deal of its bite. 

Richie definitely notices, judging by the way he just grins, lazily, and does not stop staring, like, even a little bit. “Make me.”

“If I do that we will never leave,” Eddie replies, then pulls on his shirt. 

Richie pouts behind him, head lolling backwards. He’s still completely naked, which seems off now that Eddie isn’t. He’s utterly beautiful, his long, wiry body bathed in blue, pulled taut because his legs hang off the end of the bench, beside where Eddie is perched. He smooths a hand over Richie’s thigh without thinking about it. The hairs bristle against his palm.

“Eds, can I ask you something, before you force me back into reality?” 

Eddie pauses, his hand stilling. “As long as I can ask you something too.”

“Deal.” Richie sits up, fishing over the side of the bench for his underwear. “Was this your first time?”

“Yes,” Eddie replies after a moment. There’s really no point in lying. “Guessing that was pretty obvious.”

“Actually no.” Richie pulls the Y-fronts up his long legs, his bum rising briefly off the seat so he can get them over his hips. “It’s pretty bold for a virgin to climb naked into another guy’s lap.”

“I wasn’t… totally naked.” 

Richie leans over to press a kiss to his shoulder, a little hesitantly, like he’s expecting to be told off for it. When Eddie doesn’t make a peep, he smiles beatifically. “Naked enough.”

“You make me want to do… impulsive things,” Eddie confesses, blushing. “I’m not like that normally.”

“If this is the outcome of your impulsivity,” Richie says, “I’m not sorry.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but feels the heat spread through him. “My turn. Are you gonna stop speaking to me now?” 

“What?” Richie asks, incredulous, stilling with his head and one arm through his TC polo. 

“Bev said that you… fool around with people and then stop talking to them.” 

“And here I thought she was on my side!” Richie exclaims, but doesn’t sound mad. He scoots up the bench to sit next to Eddie properly, his still-bare thigh pressed against Eddie’s shorts. “At the risk of sending you bolting for the aquarium door, I must stress to you that you are not... people. I only do that kind of shit because I’m perpetually bored, and if someone has a crush on me then I’m happy to indulge them for a bit of mutual fun. But then they catch feels, and I vamoose because I don’t actually like them all that much.” He grimaces. “None of this is anything I'm proud of.”

“So why is this any different?” Eddie asks, then blushes hard, realising the implication of that question. “Not that I- I’m not saying I’ve caught anything-”

“‘Cept all the herpes,” Richie jokes, quick as a whippet, and Eddie smacks him in the thigh. “Ow! Shit,” he laughs, “gimme a safeword first.” Eddie makes to get up then, mortification telling him to exit the situation pronto, but Richie holds onto the back of his shirt, sending his butt crashing back to the bench. It hurts, because his butt his sore, but he manages not to react and make the humiliation even worse. “Wait, sorry. I’m really dumb about- um. Everything. You’re different because you’re… you. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t really _wanna_ explain it actually, because I’m pretty sure you’d bolt if you realised just how much I actually-” he breaks off in a way that tells Eddie is difficult for him. Broken syllables still escaping, like the rest of the words are still trying to wriggle free. He takes a breath, swallows, and continues with a new sentence. “I’m not gonna stop talking to you. I don’t think I could. Unless you, uh, staple my mouth shut or something.”

“It’s not off the table.” Eddie’s arms fold across his chest to mask the loud thump of his heart. 

“So, you really wanna go back to the others instead of hanging out in an empty aquarium alone with me?” 

Eddie regards him carefully, tracking the trajectory of his eyes, which rove unashamedly over Eddie’s whole body, like they’re still seeing everything underneath his clothes. “Not really,” Eddie confesses. “But we probably should. You’re the only sober one here, and you gave three people keys to various unsafe rides.”

“The park is probably rubble by now,” Richie agrees. “This place is like a panic bunker. We’ll step outside into ash and charred turtle figurines.” 

Eddie leans into him with a sigh. “At least you won’t have to wear that dumb hat anymore.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so i recently gave in and made a reddie tumblr sideblog if ur interested: gazebosandglasses.tumblr.com :)
> 
> thank you all so much for the lovely comments! xx

Eddie makes Richie go ahead of him through the arch into El Mexicana. He lingers behind for a few minutes, gazing up into the eyes of the sombrero-wearing turtle with pure disdain. Richie is against leaving him even for this short snatch of time - had held his hand, even, all the way from the aquarium in a display of affection that pinches Eddie’s heart so keenly when he thinks about it that he pushes it from his mind completely - but is so malleable to Eddie’s commands due to all the sex, probably, that he does as asked. 

Eddie can hear him loudly insulting the others’ attempts at keeping the fire stoked from back here. He waits, stomach tensed, for the suggestive, thinly veiled excuse about where he’d been, but it never comes. Someone might ask him, but Richie ignores the whole issue of his unexplained absence, launching instead into some dumb story about a kid who barfed all over his harness on the trampolines the other day. Eddie waits two more minutes, just to be safe, and then walks over to the others, as casually as he can given that he's alight with paranoia. Nobody is really paying attention to him though, and Richie’s story only has about two listeners. Everyone else is engaged in their own thing. Those that had split off from the group to go on various rides have all returned. Some of them are draped over one of the giant stuffed turtles, stolen from a nearby games booth. Others are involved in some complicated game of leapfrog, far enough away from the fire that Eddie doesn't freak out. Bev, Bill and Ben are squashed together on a bench making gooey eyes at one another.

Eddie heads for them, bypassing Richie without letting their eyes catch, because he does not trust himself not to react and give everything away. He walks with a bit of a limp, for reasons he would rather die than go into, but Bev is quite obviously drunk, so she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t even look up until he’s right in front of her, and then her eyes light up and she drags him down to her level for a hug. 

“Eddie!” she cries, loud, into his ear. “You’re back! Wait. Did you go?” 

She releases him to give him a puzzled look. 

“Um, briefly. Just to the bathroom.” 

“You pee a lot,” she says wisely. She’s got a can of beer in her hand, which she offers to him. He shakes his head. “Have you talked to Richie?” 

She’s sort of whispering, but it’s loud enough that Richie can probably hear her from where he’s sat. “Uh, sort of.” 

She smiles sympathetically, like she’s guessed what he decided. “Good for you, honey.” 

Bill is staring at him, Eddie realises then, and swats a look at him. When their eyes meet, Bill’s narrow in scrutiny. Eddie quickly looks away. 

“Uh, do you wanna go on another ride?” Eddie asks frantically, searching for a distraction. 

“You wanna go on a ride?” Bev asks him, bewildered. 

“Yes!” Felicity shouts from nearby, running towards them. She bounces on the balls of her feet, impossibly excited. “Great idea! We should do another coaster!” 

“No,” Stan calls dopily, lounging beside the fire with a few other boys, “something chill this time. I can’t handle velocity right now.” 

“Rich, what do you suggest?” Ben calls over to him. 

Eddie allows Bev to pull him onto her lap, too scared to look over at Richie as the others all do, necks craning towards him like he's the class tutor. It’s ridiculous to resist the group mindset, given all that’s just occurred, but if Richie is the cool, hip teacher that everyone admires, then Eddie is a schoolboy with a mortifying crush, desperately trying to conceal it. 

“A chill ride in this turtle-infested nuthouse?" Richie replies, doubtfully. "I dunno, the teacups?”

Richie’s voice, loud and authoritative as it is responding to the whole group, now apparently has a direct line to Eddie’s dick, which is great news. Eddie stands abruptly from Bev’s knee before she feels anything out of the ordinary. He wanders over to the fire, pretending like he’s chilly, doing the thing people do where they hold out their hands in front of the flame. This almost certainly has never had any significant effect on warming anyone, but Eddie still does it, just to ham up the performance. 

“I’d be okay with teacups,” Stan offers, and a murmur of agreement goes around the group. 

Felicity looks a little disappointed, but shrugs her shoulders, content to go along with the consensus. “What land are they in?” 

“Turtle Tots,” Richie says. 

Eddie’s not sure how he knows it, because he determinedly hasn’t looked at Richie since they got back, but he can feel that Richie is staring at him. His skin burns and prickles, and it’s not the fire. 

“Okay, folks,” Bill announces, in his big-brotherly voice, getting to his feet. “Let’s move. Anyone for the teacup ride follow me.” 

“I’ll come,” Mike says, rising unsteadily from his seat beside Stan. He tosses a look over to Eddie. “You too, Eddie?”

“Um, sure.” 

“I’ll supervise,” Richie tacks on immediately. “Let’s tea-party.” 

*

Eddie stays firmly sandwiched between Bev and Ben on the walk to Turtle Tots Town, so he thinks he’s safe. And then something light but warm is being wrapped around his shoulders from behind, and he startles, turning to find Richie cloaking him in his horrible geometric shirt that only an hour so ago, Eddie had watched him strip off, along with everything underneath it. He’s aiming a faintly knowing smile down at Eddie’s startled face. Bev and Ben slip away when Eddie slows, still engrossed in some barely legible conversation that Eddie had only been half keeping up with. 

“Noticed you were cold,” Richie offers as an explanation for clothing him. “By the fire.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, dumbly, “thanks.”

He really hates the pattern of this shirt. It’s ugly, garish, and cheap-looking. He has never wanted to keep anything wrapped around him more. He pulls it tight, and Richie smiles like he’s won an arcade game, then puts his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, just for a moment, as if it's a reflex, before pulling away. 

“Won’t you be cold?” Eddie asks.

“I’m way too hot for that,” Richie replies smoothly, and then they’re there, stopping beside the Turtle Teacups. Everyone else is scrambling up into an upturned turtle shell in the shape of a teacup. Richie hesitates for a second, then bows deeply and holds out his hand. In a heavily exaggerated version of Downton Abbey English, he says: “Edward, would you do me the honour of accompanying me into the crockery?” 

It’s goofy, and stupid, just like every single one of Richie’s Voices, but there’s a thread of shaky nervousness in it, which slices right through Eddie’s resolve. Eddie rolls his eyes for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, but slips his hand into Richie’s, and lets himself be dragged into a teacup. Mike controls the ride this time, because, he says, he owes Richie for running The Neibolt. The wink he gives Richie though, subtly, with a sly nod of his head towards Eddie perched next to him on the bench inside of the teacup, is suspicious. Richie laughs, finger-gunning back to him like they’ve just exchanged some kind of secret coded message. Eddie tries to bore a ‘ _what the hell was that?’_ look into Richie’s head, but he’s distracted, calling out to Bev, Bill and Ben, jeering at them from the next teacup over.

“...yeah, you wish! Eds has got serious guns under his preppy shirt. We’ll spin you off the tracks.”

Eddie, of course, elbows Richie in the side affronted. “I thought this was supposed to be a chill ride?”

“They’re taunting us! We have to defeat them!” 

“There’s no way to even judge who would be spinning the fastest-” Eddie tries to protest, but Richie once again gets distracted arguing with Bill over which teacup will ‘win’, and then Mike hits a button, and the ride starts. 

Generally speaking, Eddie doesn’t do well with motion sickness. It’s one of the many reasons that Turtle Cove holds such a special place in his collection of Most Hated Things. He can deal with things like cars and trains and bicycles, which is why the Turtle Coaster, a gentle and predictable journey around a track that is all completely visible, with no surprise drops or loops, is his favourite in the park. It’s also why The Neibolt, which is partially in darkness, partially underground, and has an abundance of sickening twists, spirals, and unexpected lurches, is his least favourite. 

The Turtle Teacups waltz around one another on a moderately slow track, which Eddie can cope with. But the wheel in the middle of the cup, that allows the rider to create their own level of nauseating dizziness depending on how violently they wish to throw up at the end, is the bit he’s finding hard to cope with. Richie is hell bent on spinning them as fast as humanly possible; Eddie quickly gives up trying to turn the wheel with him, and just screws his eyes shut while the velocity of their endless spinning smushes him into Richie’s side. Laughing gaily, still shouting abuse into Bev’s teacup, Richie just continues twirling them, oblivious to Eddie’s pain. 

“Richie!” Eddie manages to cry out eventually, and Richie releases the still spinning wheel to tilt his face up and look him in the eye. Eddie opens one eye to glare at him. “Slow down, or I will puke on you.”

“Shit!” Richie says in a tone that sounds genuinely guilt-ridden. He holds his hands up in front of him to show he’s stopped spinning the wheel. His hair flies wildly about him, because they’re still going way too fast. “Sorry, angel. I thought you were snuggling into me ‘cause you were so smitten by my hulk-like strength.” 

Eddie manages a snort of laughter, but doesn’t try to extricate himself from Richie’s side, even though the teacup is slowly but surely decelerating. Richie casually drapes an arm around his shoulders, and Eddie decides he likes it there, so he lets it stay. He can hear Richie’s heart beating: it’s quick. 

“You good?” Richie asks, when they’re back to a gentle twirl, occasionally punctured by the shrieks coming from their rival teacup hurtling past. Eddie straightens a little, just enough to peek over the edge at the other cups, all engrossed in their own spinning. He’s careful not to dislodge Richie’s arm. “I’d still think you’re cute if you puked on me. Just so we’re clear.”

“That’s disgusting,” Eddie tells him, but he’s smiling. He can’t help it. In the distance, beyond the tracks of The Neibolt, streaks of pale yellow light are leaking over the far-off horizon. He settles himself back against Richie, feeling the weight of his own tiredness - until now kept at bay by all the adrenaline - draping itself over him. “I think you’re safe now.”

“Thank God,” Richie says, “that’s my favourite shirt you’re wearing.”

“This?” Eddie asks, incredulous. “This is the worst shirt I’ve ever seen.” 

“Then give it back.”

“No.” 

He’s closed his eyes now, but he can feel the smug smile creep onto Richie’s face from how his chest pulls. He grabs hold of Richie’s hand, dangling over his shoulder, and holds it tight before he can talk himself out of it. The teacup's rotations are slow, hypnotic. 

“You gettin’ sleepy on me, Kaspbrak?” Richie asks, but Eddie doesn’t feel too bad about it because there’s a sluggish, thick quality to his voice that suggests he might be getting sleepy too. 

Richie’s fingers toy with the hair on top of his head, which feels soupy and nice. He thinks about the way it had felt with Richie inside of him, all slick and deep and so consumingly good that Eddie was half-sure he’d pass out from it. 

“Hmm,” Eddie replies, and brings Richie’s hand, entwined with his own, to his mouth so he can push his lips against it. “You’re warm.” 

“I know you meant to say smokin’ hot there, gorgeous, but you’re clearly seconds away from unconsciousness so I’ll allow it.” 

“S’it weird if I sleep on you?”

“After I tired you out, I think it’s the least I can do,” Richie replies, keeping his voice quiet even though there’s no way anyone could hear him over Bev’s screeching. “D’you snore? Please say you snore. That’d be so cute.”

“You tell me. You’ve seen me sleep before.”

“I didn’t _watch_ you, weirdo.” 

“You totally watched me.” 

“...shut up.” 

Eddie smiles triumphantly, burrowing into Richie’s chest, and that’s the last thing he remembers about riding the teacups. 

*

The early glow of morning light is glossing the park when Eddie opens his eyes. Richie is whispering his name, a hand tangled in Eddie’s hair, raking softly over his scalp. 

“What?” Eddie asks, coming to abruptly as the disorientation swells his anxiety. He sits up, and the vessel he’s seated in spins, which only worsens his panic. “Where- oh.” 

Richie is smiling at him fondly, his hand slowing the teacup’s trajectory using the wheel in the centre. “Mornin’.”

Eddie blinks at him, snippets of last night’s activities attacking him in a sleepy, half-formed slew. God, he’s tired. “How long were we asleep?” 

“Couple hours,” Richie replies. “It’s nearly eight.” 

“Shit,” Eddie says, yawning. “I gotta get home. My mom will wake up soon.”

“Yeah, Bev’s just gone to pee. She asked me to wake you up, ‘cause she wants to leave.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, prodding gingerly at his rousing brain to work out how he feels about Bev seeing him no doubt curled into Richie, asleep. “Um. Right.” He can’t figure it out at the moment. He’ll have to decide his response to that particular issue later. “Are you… what are you gonna do?”

Richie’s answering smile is soft, melty. “In about an hour I’m gonna mosey on over to the trampolines there and start catapulting kids into the air.”

“Shit,” Eddie says, succinctly. He reaches out and gives Richie’s knee an awkward pat. “Sorry.”

Richie laughs, pulling him close with an enviable ease, arm slinging round Eddie’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to his head. “Hey,” he tells Eddie’s hair, “last night…” Eddie braces himself, remaining very still. “...that was like… my favourite of all the nights.” 

A warmth blossoms in the centre of Eddie’s chest. He feels a powerful urge to tilt his face up, to capture Richie’s mouth in a kiss, but the filmy, sour taste of his own unbrushed tongue stops him. Instead, he burrows into Richie’s shoulder, making him laugh, and mumbles, “me too.”

Oddly, Richie smells like spearmint, along with the faint but still detectable tang of his cologne. There’s something else too, something deeper, headier, that Eddie strongly suspects is the smell of sex. It should be repulsive, to still be able to smell this, but it’s not. It makes Eddie want to get at Richie’s skin, in fact, and properly investigate where the pheromones and remnants of sweat and saliva are coming from. 

Richie’s hands place themselves gently either side of Eddie’s jaw, and turn his face upwards. It’s on the tip of Eddie’s tongue, to say that he can’t be kissed because he hasn’t seen his toothbrush since yesterday morning, but Richie so obviously doesn’t care about this that it seems stupid to bring it up. Richie’s mouth is cool and forgiving, so soft that had they been standing, Eddie’s sure he would have felt his legs give way from under him. 

“I’ll miss you,” Richie murmurs against him. “Can I see you later?”

A wicked, illuminating thrill runs through Eddie’s body when this possibility presents itself, and then he crashes back into the reality of his life. He groans in annoyance, and shakes his head, already embarrassed at having to tell the truth. “I’m grounded.” 

“Oh yeah,” Richie says with a sigh. 

He traces a finger over the back of Eddie’s ear, leaving a trail of tingles in his wake. Eddie kisses him again, because it’s becoming increasingly apparent, as his brain clicks back into gear, that he’s going to have to leave soon, and he has no idea when he’ll see Richie again after that. The thought makes him wind his fingers into the lapels of Richie’s shirt, kissing deeper, which is the position they are in when the clear, unmistakable voice of Beverly Marsh shouts:

“Oi, Call Me By Your Name, park’s opening soon. Let’s vamoose.” 

Eddie jerks away from Richie, already scarlet. He waves an awkward hand towards where she stands, down on the path beside the teacup ride, but is unable to meet her eye. “Coming,” he calls, struggling to extricate himself from Richie’s hold. “Richie, I need you to remove your-”

“Pants?”

Eddie sends him a withering look. “Arm. From my shoulders.” 

Richie looks displeased, but does unwind himself, pouting. Eddie gathers himself together as best he can, flustered and sleepy, half tangled in Richie’s limbs. He's shrugging Richie's shirt from his shoulders when Richie lets out a long, resigned sigh, stretching his arms over his head, his legs extended as far as they can in the small teacup. The sight of him on display like this, limbs long, strip of skin visible beneath his TC polo, makes Eddie pause, fingers fumbling in their movements. 

“Today’s gonna suuuuck,” Richie complains, oblivious to Eddie's ogling, then flops back against the seat, offering Eddie a final, tired smile. “Text me? Give me something to keep me going on my lunch break?”

“I’m not sending you nudes.” 

Richie grins. “Now why would you put that idea in my head?” 

“I’m leaving now,” Eddie warns, throwing the balled up shirt at him, then hoisting himself over the lip of the cup. He pauses, one leg in the cup, one leg out. “Um, thanks for… a fun night.”

“It was a real sacrifice on my part,” Richie tells him with a twinkling smile. “Get home safe, gorgeous.” 

Eddie gives him a quick, last smile, then drops down onto the rotating platform, picking his way through the empty teacups to the edge, where a typically morning-moody Bev is tapping her foot impatiently. 

“Wait, Eds!” Richie calls, making Eddie pause. He turns, to see Richie with his arms draped over the edge of the teacup, his chin resting on the lip. “Can I have a kiss goodbye?” 

Eddie’s heart leaps into his throat. He darts a scared look at Bev, who makes an exasperated huffing sound, arms lifted to the sky. “For fuck’s sake, you spent the whole teacup ride with your lips attached to his face. I've seen the worst already. Go plant one on the man so we can get the heck outta here.” 

A lot of Eddie’s decision to turn back and grant Richie’s request is spurred by the ferocity of Bev’s tone, but he does enjoy the kiss anyway, despite the shit-eating grin on Richie’s face when he pulls away. Richie winks at him before sinking back into the teacup, and Eddie turns, flees, and trips over his own feet on the way off the ride. 

*

“I am going to go home, throw up, and then sleep for the next fifty hours,” Bev groans, forehead resting on the steering wheel. They’re outside Eddie’s house, having driven in unusual silence back from Turtle Cove, Eddie’s bike in the back. “Who the fuck thought drinking, rollercoasters, and staying up all night was a good idea?”

“I’m pretty sure you did,” Eddie replies. “Are you going to be okay to drive home?” 

“It’s like three blocks,” Bev says, but she looks dubious as she sinks back into her seat. “I’ll go slow.” 

“Thanks for the ride,” Eddie tells her, reaching for the door handle. 

He’s almost gotten away with it, but he feels her hand on his knee just before he can slip out of the door. “Eddie,” she says, in the big-sisterly voice Eddie dreads, “you know that I’m gonna grill your bones like it’s the fourth of fucking July as soon as I’ve recovered, right?” 

He swallows, the back of his neck prickling with sweat. “Looking forward to it.” 

“Cool,” she says, patting his knee, and then sighs. “If you try to run from me, I will hunt you down. Keep your phone on.” 

“Loud and clear, boss.” 

“Okay, get out of my car.” 

Eddie does so, hopping out smartly and power-walking to retrieve his bike from the truck bed before she forgets and heads off with it. He's made that mistake once. Bev crawls away in the truck with a weak wave, and Eddie creeps up the path to his front porch, leaning his bike carefully against the side of the house where it had been yesterday. His mom usually wakes up at eight-thirty, so he’s got ten minutes or so to sneak back in, but it will still require some stealth. He slips the key in the lock and turns it slowly, wincing, and eases the door open just enough to squeeze his small body through into the hall. He tiptoes past the living room door, glancing in to check his mom isn’t in her chair yet - _no, thank God_ \- and hurries straight up the stairs, light-footed but quick, then darts into his bedroom. 

With the door shut behind him, Eddie lets out a sigh of relief. He sheds his clothes quickly, shoving them under the bed to be dealt with later, and pulls on his pyjamas. Ignoring the voices of resistance that bubble up, Eddie drags Richie II onto the bed, and climbs straight under the covers. The turtle is so huge that it takes up nearly all of the space, but Eddie is quite fond of how it dwarfs him, its flipper resting on his arm like it’s spooning him if he lies with his back towards it. 

A thought occurs to him in his sleepy daze, making him snicker, so before he can talk himself out of it, Eddie grabs his phone off the bedside and opens the camera. He takes a selfie, Richie II’s placidly grinning face clearly visible over his shoulder, and sends it to Richie. He won’t see it until lunchtime, probably, but hopefully it will make him laugh. Eddie absolutely cannot imagine having to work a full day in that god awful place right now, exhausted as he is. 

The last thing he thinks before sleep snatches him and drags him away, is of Richie’s bare, adoring face, bathed in blue. 

*

Eddie wakes up for the second time, dizzy and grumpy in that way that unregulated naps make you feel, at just after one in the afternoon. It’s strange to see the digits 13:04 on his phone just after waking, because in the history of living under his mother’s roof, Eddie has never been permitted to stay in bed past nine unless his mom is having one of her manic munchausen moments. He flings the covers off himself, stumbling blearily towards the door. He’s briefly distracted by the sound of his phone buzzing with a text, but he ignores it, walking to the landing to lean over the bannister. 

“Mom?” he calls out, and listens. 

The usual instant response of ‘yes, Eddie bear?!’ is mysteriously absent. A tight knot of worry winds around his intestines; he jogs down the stairs, checking the living room first, then the kitchen, then the dining room, which hasn’t been used since Eddie’s dad died, and is now a storage container for the stacks of magazines, charity shop trinkets, and old piles of moth eaten clothes his mom hoards like there’s no tomorrow. She’s nowhere to be found. It’s only on his second trip around the house, calling out, that Eddie notices the sheet of florally decorated paper left on the kitchen counter. 

_Eddie darling,_

_Mommy didn’t want to wake you. There’s an emergency_

_at Auntie Carrie’s house. Little Letty and Corey have_

_chicken pox. I told your Auntie that she needed to keep_

_them indoors after the outbreak at their school, but of_

_course she didn’t listen!! As you know, you’ve never_

_had the horrible dirty disease, because your mother_

_knew how to keep you safe! I’ve agreed to go and help_

_out looking after the poor poppets, but it means that I’ll_

_have to be away from you for a few days. Can’t risk_

_you getting it now that you’re older, it can make you_

_infertile! Honestly, Carrie should know better than to put_

_everyone else at risk too._

_I’ve left you some money on the side, sweetie, and you_

_have some stew portions left in the freezer. I’ll call you_

_every day. Be good and stay indoors!_

_Mommy xxx_

Eddie fingers the ten dollar bill laid neatly beside the note, mind racing. A few _days_ with no parental supervision. Any other kid would be wild with the news. They’d throw a party, or invite their significant other round for a jam-packed, non-stop sexual extravaganza. Which… Eddie supposes he could do. But contrary to how recent events might have painted his interests, Eddie is not the insatiably horny partying type. He tries to get his brain to think, sluggish and half-awake as it is, but all his thoughts are too Richie-centric to be trusted. He grabs the tenner off the counter and heads back up the stairs. His phone is still buzzing with regular texts. He grabs it, noting at once that all of them are from Richie. 

His smile is involuntary, and embarrassing. 

Before reading them, he opens his chat with his mom. 

**Eddie  
** Hi mommy,   
I got your note. Give Letty and   
Corey my love. I will be good  
while you’re away.   
Lots of love,  
Eddie xxx

The three dots that indicate she’s typing back appear straight away, but Eddie still has to wait four minutes before her text comes through. 

**Mommy  
** Eddie love,  
Letty and Corey are a nightmare!   
Completely covered in pox, and   
running totally wild. Will let you   
know an update later. I will ring   
about 9 just before you go to bed.   
Lots of love,  
Mommy xxx

That dealt with, Eddie sets a timer on his phone for 8:50pm labelled ‘MOM CALL INCOMING’, then finds his chat with Bev. In the short time between discovering the note and now, Eddie’s one coherent thought has been, broadly: _Bev will know better than you how to make the most of this situation._

**Eddie  
** Hi.  
I’m coming over to your house to   
nap more. Have you done all of  
your vomiting? x

 **Bev**  
my room is now a vomit free zone   
come on down xx

Eddie breathes out triumphantly through his nose. Okay. Now that he’s organised his immediate future, he can afford a moment of indulgence. He finds his chat with Richie, lips already twitching with amusement, and opens it up. 

**Richie  
** Oh my GOD. 

**Richie**  
oh my god. this is what i imagine it  
feels like to be waterboarded

 **Richie  
** your fucking pyjamas too

 **Richie  
** the jealousy i feel for that turtle

 **Richie  
** using my name

 **Richie  
** spooning my favorite sleeping partner

 **Richie  
** i’ll fuck him up. like… tomorrow maybe.  
when i dont feel like im about to pass out  
from exhaustion and heat stroke

 **Richie  
** u there? i miss u talk to me

 **Eddie  
** Get back to work, slacker.

 **Richie  
** my work is hurling small children into  
the air

 **Richie  
** im running on four coffees and a can of  
monster cherry. its safer if i slack

 **Eddie  
** You’re this desperate to talk to me huh?

 **Richie  
** after our last phone call can u blame me?  
;) xx

 **Eddie  
** I’m not having phone sex with you when I   
know there are children and at least six  
turtles in your immediate vicinity. 

**Richie  
** seven. soooo does that imply that its not  
off the table for when im not at work

 **Eddie  
** Refuse to be objectified this way.

 **Eddie  
**...Maybe. 

**Eddie  
** I have to go now, im going to bevs. 

**Richie  
** bless u for giving me something to hope  
for during this trying time

 **Richie  
** speak later angel xxx


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the sporadic updates! Been busy for the past few days. Thanks for all the love! I appreciate you all <3 xx

Bev is asleep when Eddie gets to her house, but her aunt lets him in with an easy smile, not hovering to offer snacks like Stan’s mom had, but gesturing around with a paint-flecked hand and telling him _‘mi casa es tu casa’_. The place looks jarringly tidy and free of booze stains compared to how Eddie last saw it. He smiles sheepishly at Bev’s aunt, who quickly disappears back to her studio at the end of the garden. Her partner, Annie, is in the kitchen singing a Lana Del Rey song in a hauntingly pretty voice. Eddie can hear the clink of crockery, like she’s unstacking the dishwasher. 

Too socially awkward to interrupt the lovely rendition of ‘Gods and Monsters’ (a song Eddie only knows because he’s so often heard it over the vinyl player in this house), Eddie heads straight for the stairs. He’d showered before he came over here; that, along with packing a bag with three changes of clothes - just in case - and the cycle ride, has exhausted him again. He really is terrible at staying up all night. God knows how Richie is faring. 

In the shower, Eddie had done a full inspection of his post-virginal naked body, discovering a trail of rosebud hickeys down one side of his throat, four faint crescent shaped bruises on both of his thighs, and a sore, but otherwise unchanged bum. Aside from that, the only difference he could see in the steamy mirror was his face’s lack of casual glumness that has been a constant presence for a long time. Eddie opens Bev’s door and drops his bag onto the floor, flinging himself down on her bed without preamble. Her red blind is closed, giving the room a blood-soaked tinge, an effect Eddie has always found vaguely creepy, like falling asleep inside of a living heart. Bev rolls over when he hits the mattress, her small white hand shooting out to grab at him. 

“Whaddya want?” she slurs, and then releases him when recognition sets in. “Oh. It’s you.” 

She yawns, wriggling towards him so she can drape her arm and leg over his side. 

“To not be tired anymore,” Eddie replies, grumpy because he can be himself in front of her. “I’m the worst teenager in the world. I can’t handle one night without sleep.”

“So nap,” Bev says, yawning a second time. “I’m not getting up yet.”

Eddie doesn’t need convincing. Normally he would resist the urge, especially as he’s just showered and cleaned his teeth, not to mention he’s still fully dressed. But Bev is pliant and warm, a comforting weight against him that he’s known since childhood. Her short ginger hair is soft against his chin. The room is dark and silent, smelling of richly scented candles - blood orange and sandalwood - that don’t even appear to be lit right now, but have left their traces in the air. Bev’s breathing evens out, and Eddie feels his slowing to match. He lets his eyes close, and when he opens them again, he’s in a classroom at school, Bev scrawling a note in his work book. Richie II is the teacher, propped up by the whiteboard, his flippers sticking out, a pen balanced on his stuffed head. 

“Not sure about this guy,” a familiar voice says from the desk next to his. Eddie turns to Richie, who is tipping dangerously back in his chair in that way that never fails to make Eddie incredibly nervous. “I liked Ms Rotherham better.”

Ms Rotherham has been Eddie’s English teacher for the last three years. Eddie opens his mouth to point out that Richie has never been in Ms Rotherham’s class with him, and if this new teacher is her replacement, then he has the wrong class. Instead, his tongue sits heavy and dormant in his mouth.

Riche aims him a wink and says, “I heard this guy is just her boy toy.”

Eddie looks down at his work book. He seems to have written, in place of his usual notes, the phrase _‘R + E’_ several times on the page. He covers it with his hands in a frantic effort to stop Richie seeing. In the corner, he notices, Bev has written _‘Eddie Tozier or Richie Kaspbrak???_ ’ beside a drawing of one of those little hearts with an arrow through it. Eddie shoots her a glare, but she’s kissing a pink lollipop shaped like a fish. Richie is trying to pry his hand off the page now, laughing hysterically, asking him why he’s being so secretive, and Eddie despairs, knowing he has mere seconds before he’ll prise his fingers up and reveal the truth underneath-

He wakes to an empty bed - covered in vulvas - and the blind at half-mast. The window is open a crack, letting in the soft but clear sound of voices from the back garden, laughter and amiable chatter. It sounds like Bev. It sounds like she’s not alone. He blinks his dream away, heart still beating, and slowly sits up. She must be outside with her aunts, perhaps enjoying an iced tea on the patio where Eddie’s tumultuous feelings of guilt and frustration over Richie had first crystallised into _oh. I really just want him to kiss me._ He’s too hot in this room even with the window ajar, so he shrugs off his windbreaker, which he had apparently slept in, so is half stuck to the skin of his arms, and digs out his phone from the pocket of his shorts, yawning.

 **Eddie  
** Hey. I have arisen from my  
slumber. You may now probe  
my vulnerable, sleepy body  
for information. 

**Bev  
** on my way!

He hears her, through the window, calling to someone that she’ll be right back, and moments later there’s the sound of bare footsteps slamming against stairs as she runs up them. She bursts into the room wearing workout shorts, a crop top, and a floor-length kimono with koi fish on it. She’s grinning in eagerness as she bounces onto her knees on the bed. In her hands she holds a half-full bowl of cereal and a spoon, which she slurps from as she nods for him to begin spilling his guts. 

Eddie decides, whilst grimacing at her eating habits, that it’s best to just rip the bandaid off. 

“I had sex last night,” he blurts. 

Bev inhales a coco pop, coughing so hard that she spills some chocolatey milk onto her leg. “W- _what_?!” 

“Isn’t that what you thought happened?!” Eddie asks, panicked. “I mean- I thought you’d guessed already!” 

“No! Oh my God! I thought you went and… I dunno, made out with Richie on the ferris wheel ‘Love, Simon’ style, not- Oh my God!” 

“Oh my God,” Eddie repeats, letting his face fall into his hands. 

He hears the thunk of the bowl being placed down on the bedside table, quickly followed by Bev’s hand smoothing over his back. “Hey, hey,” she says, soothingly, “sorry. Didn’t mean to freak out. I just didn’t expect you to say that. But hey, man! That’s great! Do you feel- is it great? Are we celebrating this?” 

Eddie shrugs, peeking out from between his fingers. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Yeah? I think we are. Do you think I shouldn’t have-?”

She cuts him off with a sharp look. “That is so completely not my business, Eddie. I told you the stuff I thought was out of line, but I’m guessing you took my advice and made a decision on that? And if you did, then I’m happy for you! Richie’s not always… easy to tolerate, but he’s so crazy about you, and he’s a sweetheart. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s hella rich.” 

Eddie gives her a stern look for that, which makes her laugh, then shrug. He lets his hands fall from his face with a sigh, all sorts of confused now. “I like him,” he says slowly, trying the words out loud for the first time. “I do. He’s so lovely to me. When we’re alone. And he likes all the stuff that most people hate about me. My sharpness. My hot head. He says he likes having someone to spar with, because most people either shut him down, or get upset.” 

“The beep-beep thing Bill made up?” Bev asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. “He mentioned that.” 

“It’s a useful trick,” Bev says with a shrug. “He can get a little much.” 

“But he said I don’t need it,” Eddie mumbles, feeling self-conscious about divulging this, of all things, to Bev, even though he’d happily admitted to the sex. “He said I’m, I don’t know, quick or unbothered enough to insult him right back. And that’s why he likes me.” 

“That makes _so_ much sense,” Bev says, awed, and lies back on the bed, eyes wide. Eddie slips his socked feet beneath the spread silk of her kimono, which is splayed across the bed. “You’re like his perfect partner. Someone that can keep up with him.”

“Not sure about that,” Eddie says, reddening at the word ‘partner’. “He’s got more energy than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Bev turns to aim a sly raised eyebrow his way, smirking. “Oh really?” 

Eddie is scarlet before the words even sink into his brain. He kicks her gently in the side. “Not like that!” 

“But… a little like that?” Bev asks, grabbing hold of his foot before he can kick her again. “C’mon, gimme something! Was it, like, good, at least?” 

Eddie squirms, hot all over, and wrenches his foot free of her grasp so he can tuck himself into a tight ball, knees to his chest. “I don’t know, do I?! I’ve never done it before!”

Bev is not the slightest bit fooled by this answer. She rolls up to sit beside him against the headboard, retrieving her cereal with a snort. “Don’t give me that,” she commands, making a ‘spill’ gesture with her spoon, “he either rocked your world or it was awkward and gross and you can’t look him in the eye anymore. Which?”

Eddie tips his face to the ceiling. Bev has stuck a poster of Faith from Buffy up there, mid fight-scene. “The… former, I guess.” 

She shrieks, exposing a mouthful of half-mushed cereal that makes Eddie gag when he glimpses it. “You _guess_! Oh my God, a glowing review. I’m so gonna rag on him about this later.”

“No!” Eddie exclaims, horrified. “You can’t repeat this to him.”

“Mmhmm, sure can,” she counters, eyes glinting with mischief, “so if ‘ _he rocked my world I guess_ ’ is the extent of your review, just be aware that is the message he will receive-”

“C’mon, Bev, don’t make me-” Eddie groans, blowing air skyward. “Look. It was… if you really have to know, you _demoness_ , it was. Um. Great. Better than great. I wanted it to be… special. So I picked him. Because I knew he would be considerate of me, and I trust him. And, yeah. Honestly, he made it ...perfect.” 

Bev stops chewing, regarding him carefully. “Perfect?” 

Eddie shrugs, tracing one of the vulva patterns with his thumb. “Yeah.”

Bev tips the last of the milk into her mouth, considering this. When she wipes her lips, she turns to him, eyebrows peaked. “Wow. Go Richie.” 

“I can’t decide if you telling him that is better or worse than you telling him ‘I guess’ it was good.” 

“I’m not gonna tell him anything,” Bev says, chuckling. “I just wanted to get it out of you.” 

Eddie, quite reasonably, shoves her off the bed. “I hate you.” 

“Kicked me outta my own bed!” Bev calls from the floor, affronted. “ _And_ after I got you a present!” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “If it’s candy, you know I can’t eat-” 

“It’s not candy, wait here,” she says, exasperated, then stands, grabs her empty bowl and disappears from the room in a flurry of silk. 

Eddie picks his phone up, heart going mad in his chest after that conversation, which had gone so extremely differently in his head. He’d told Bev over text before he came over that his mom is away, and she’d graciously told him he could stay as long as he wanted here, which alleviates some of the pressure of not knowing what to do with that freedom. He’d feel shit about himself if he spent the time at home alone, doing everything he’d normally do if his mom was there. At least by staying at Bev’s house, he can pretend like he did something slightly rebellious. 

There’s another option available to him, Eddie knows, can hear his brain suggesting it casually from a dimly lit back corner, but Eddie is trying, for the moment, not to listen. To interweave whatever is developing between him and Richie with the few days of mom-less time he has in front of him is a bit too scary to consider right now, when his sleep pattern is all out of whack and he’s just lost his virginity to the guy less than twenty-four hours ago. 

So, he’ll consider that option later. Maybe. 

And then, Bev is back, standing gleefully in the doorway, hiding a snicker. She steps into the room, hands clutched at her chest. “Please don’t kill me,” she says, sending Eddie into an instant seize of panic. 

She throws an arm wide, grandly gesturing towards the door, the long drape of her sleeve dialling up the theatrics by a good fifty percent. And then Richie Tozier slides into frame on his long legs with the jeans that are half falling down, doing jazz hands. 

“Ta daaa!” he says, and Eddie’s whole body lights up like the mayor’s just flipped the switch on Christmas Eve. 

To hide his instinctive reaction of paralysing horror, Eddie tightens the grip around his knees, shrinking into himself. His mouth flaps for words, but they seem to have left him for now. In the wake of the silence, Richie shoves his hands into his jeans pockets, toeing the carpet with the tip of his shoe. He’s wearing shoes in the house, Eddie notes. _What will Annie think?_

“I invited him over because I wanted some comedown weed, to be honest,” Bev says, wincing, “but he knew you were here, which is totally not my fault-” she settles an accusatory glare on Eddie, as if this whole situation can be blamed on him somehow, “-so he asked where you were and I said you were sleeping, and he looked all sad, so…” 

“So…” Eddie croaks out, shooting her a sharp look. “What? You decided to pull him in here to jumpscare me while I’m all gross and- and-”

He gestures at himself, blotchy with mortification. Richie, sensing a gap in the argument, merrily leaps in. “Eds, you look just as gorgeous as ever,” he says assuringly. 

This time, Eddie shoots him a glare. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“...Is that my cue to leave?” Bev asks, unsurely. 

Eddie would blush, but he’s pretty sure he’s as red in the cheeks as is humanly possible at this point. He unfurls himself slowly, mostly because remaining a tightly wrapped ball is stifling him, on top of the stuffy room and the fact he’s just roused from a nap in full clothes. He lets his legs cross beneath him on the bed, breathing slowly to fend off a brewing panic attack. 

“I was waiting for you to invite me, duh,” Richie answers, then hops onto the bed, neatly landing on his knees beside Eddie, all broad smiles. He doesn’t get too close, doesn’t try for the octopus attack like Eddie worries he might. He’s wearing a pink hoodie over his TC uniform, which Eddie instantly loves in a way he’s never loved any of Richie’s other clothes. It’s pale and soft-looking. He knows it would be heavenly to curl up against, so he deliberately tucks his hands into his lap, to be sure they don’t stray. “I’m kidding,” Richie says after an awkward pause of Eddie ogling him, “I don’t have to stay. My reserves of energy are running dangerously low at this point, so I’m about to pass out. Which I can do at my own house. I just wanted a last glimpse of your pretty face before I adios.” 

It’s a sickeningly sweet sentence, and it burrows right underneath Eddie’s skin before he can help it. Bev coughs from the corner of the room, and Eddie realises he’s smiling, gooey and dopey despite his efforts to keep himself in check. 

“Uh, so, Richie brought Bill with him, and I left him in the yard with my aunt,” Bev explains, casting a worried look towards her bedroom window. “She’s prob’ly trying to persuade him to pose nude again. You cool to chill up here for a bit while I go rescue him? Just kick him out whenever, Eddie.” She aims a stern finger at Richie. “Do as he says, Tozier. He’s an honorary occupant in this house. He’s in charge.”

Richie mimes a solemn salute. “In every aspect of my life, yes.” 

She looks, briefly, at Eddie, eyebrows raised, waiting to check he’s not silently signalling _‘don’t leave me!’,_ like the considerate best friend she secretly is. He just gives her a forgiving smile, shaking his head, and she snorts in a way that Eddie interprets as _‘you are so smitten’_ , before exiting the room. Eddie turns back to Richie, skin prickling with nerves. He’s so hot. But he can’t take any more layers off now, it would look too suggestive.

“Hi,” he manages to say.

Contrary to him, Richie looks relaxed. Chilled. He lounges back on his elbows on the bed, gracing Eddie with a breezy smile, eyelids heavy behind his glasses. Like he’s right where he wants to be. “Hey,” he says back. “How was the rest of your day?”

“I was unconscious for most of it,” Eddie admits. 

“Snuggled up with my imposter,” Richie remembers, smirking. “I’m extremely jealous. Thinking of switching lives with him. A Prince and the Pauper deal. He works the trampolines, I sleep in your bed. Whaddya think?” 

Eddie feels the trill of excitement run through him at the flirtation, pathetic though it is. “I think he’d do a better job than you do keeping those kids safe while they fling themselves into the air.” 

“Oh, undoubtedly. Especially today, man. I was barely with it. Nearly let a six-year-old slingshot herself across the park.” Richie shuffles closer, holding out a tentative hand between them, palm face up. Eddie places his hand into it, feeling strangely shy about it. “The question is,” Richie continues casually, fingers folding around Eddie’s, “would I do a better job than him?”

“At… sleeping in my bed?” Eddie asks, realising too late how suggestive this stupid conversation has suddenly become. 

Richie chuckles, flipping their hands over to start drawing circles on Eddie’s palm. “Yeah.” 

Eddie’s not sure what comes over him. He’s pretty certain that half of his next decision is born of concern over Richie’s wellbeing, considering the guy is undoubtedly nearing the hallucinatory stage of his sleep deprivation. But the other half… that’s probably not as wholesome. He flicks his gaze pointedly to the head of the bed, then drags it back to Richie. 

“I’m willing to give you the opportunity to prove your skills,” he says, and Richie’s eyebrows skyrocket up his forehead. “To- to sleep!” Eddie says quickly. “You have to sleep. It’s bad for you to stay up so long. I’ll nap with you, is what I’m saying- oh, crap.” 

He tears his hand away from Richie, who is badly concealing a laugh. “Hey,” he says, pulling Eddie’s hand back, clutching it tight. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. I’m just tired, like you said. And I get all nervous around you.”

Eddie’s face contorts itself into something between disbelief and annoyance. Whatever the result, he’s sure it’s not pretty. But Richie just laughs again, and leans in to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. The way he does it, so gentle, so casual, is as if he can’t help it. Eddie feels his stomach roll over, biologically impossible as that is. He turns his face, eyelashes low and fluttering, and pushes their mouths together properly. 

Richie’s hand, still holding his, squeezes tight when their lips meet.

After a minute or so, just as Eddie’s getting happily re-acquainted with Richie’s mouth, Richie seals his big hands over Eddie’s cheeks and pulls their lips apart. 

“Angel, I love kissing you more than I love, like, candy, but I mean it when I say I am actually at risk of falling asleep on you,” Richie confesses, sounding apologetic. “You can, uh, totally, _totally_ say no to this offer, but…” he swallows, looking away. “Do you wanna come over to my house? Bev told me you’re a free man for tonight. We can just hang out, I’ll stick on a movie and fall asleep on you, then at some point wake up to feed you and tell you how cute you are. If that sounds in any way appealing.” 

The image that first rears up is of Richie’s enormous, mildly terrifying castle-ette, with its weird time-warped rooms and vaulted, chandelier-studded ceilings. Just thinking about that place makes him nervous; it’s so big he’d definitely get lost in it alone, and end up running into one or both of Richie’s severe, disapproving parents in a parlor or wine cellar or some other rich-person room. 

But the second image is blurrier, weighted with warmth and the smell of patchouli, of being cocooned in Richie’s arms, waking up between snatches of dream to the sound of his even breathing, the tightness of his embrace. The smile spreads, buttery soft, across Eddie’s mouth. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding readily. “Yeah, let’s do that.” 

It’s adorable how obviously Richie tries to stifle his answering grin. He’s wearing his glasses, so the delighted glint in his eyes is not as clear as it is sometimes, but Eddie catches it anyway. Richie brings his hand up to his lips, kissing Eddie’s knuckles, and then leaps off the bed with what must be the absolute dregs of his energy reserve. 

“Groovy,” he says, skipping to the door. “Get your things, hot stuff. I’ll alert Bev that I’m kidnapping you.” 

*

“Am I going to meet your parents?” Eddie asks as Richie’s car rolls over the gravel path up towards his courtyard. 

“Maybe,” Richie says, shooting him a vaguely concerned look. “I’ve heard they live here too. Although they could’ve fooled me.”

“And will they mind me…” Eddie pauses. “...staying?”

“Nah,” Richie says, with total certainty. “It’s more likely that they’ll say something elitist and snobby to piss you off. I apologise in advance if that happens. Just try to ignore them. They don’t know any better.” 

“I’m not going to ignore your parents,” Eddie says, horrified, and Richie sighs, pulling the car into a random area of the courtyard and pulling the handbrake. 

“Fine, but if I make this signal,” he hooks his fingers into the corners of his mouth, stretching it obscenely wide, “then things have taken a turn for the worst. I’ll distract them, and you make a run for it. Don't stop. Don't look back. Or I'll be hauled back into the underworld forever.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, hitting him weakly in the shoulder. “Okay, Eurydice. Stop being dramatic.”

He reaches for the door handle, but Richie lunges to stop him. “No! Your pure, un-dirtied hands can't be allowed to touch such filth. Wait there.”

He gets out of the car, walking speedily around the bonnet to the passenger side so he can haul Eddie’s door open for him. He performs a low bow, gesturing for Eddie to step out. 

“Much more reserved, thanks,” Eddie mutters, but climbs out, awkwardly standing by while Richie closes the door behind him, then retrieves his bag from the trunk and slings it over his shoulder. “You must be so exhausted,” Eddie complains, trying to grab the bag off him to no avail. “Let me carry the bag.”

“Shan't,” Richie replies, but does grab for Eddie’s hand as they stroll through the front door. 

Eddie lets him have it, despite his surge of nerves as he thinks about the fact that one or both of Richie’s parents might see. _Do they know Richie likes boys? Are they okay with it? Would they think of Eddie as low class trash not good enough for their son?_ It turns out that he needn’t bother worrying, however, as they see nobody at all on their long trek down the corridors flanked with ornately framed landscape paintings, tread across the thick, impossibly long Turkish rugs, and round corner after wood-panelled corner until they reach the wing where Richie's room resides. 

Eddie trails along behind Richie like a child, hanging onto his hand, gawping at all of the opulence as he’s hurried through the house. Richie clearly doesn’t want to hover, but all Eddie can do is stare, wishing he could study the sights a second longer - the occasional family pictures on side tables, the smell of tea tree and lavender that seems to permeate the air from little sticks in pots of fragrant oil, the sound of a man speaking in a business-like voice behind a closed door marked ‘Study’. 

Finally, somewhere in the intestines of the upper house, they reach a room off a small corridor, at the end of which is a window that looks out over Derry, flat and unassuming as the town is, except for the tangle of tracks and plaster buildings that make up Turtle Cove. A many-tentacled beast hunched on the horizon. Eddie wants to press his face up to the glass and look out, but Richie is already opening the door - with a key, Eddie notes, wild as it seems to him to have the luxury of such freely given privacy - and pulling him into a spacious bedroom, at least four times the size of Eddie’s own. Richie drops his hand to go and put his bag down on an ovular chair that hangs from a beam across the ceiling. 

“I’d say ‘this is where the magic happens’, but honestly the most action this room has gotten is seeing me spill ice pop juice onto my bare chest while I’m watching Seinfeld,” Richie says, not stopping as he moves towards a King-sized bed on a vaulted platform. It requires actual steps to reach it, and pulls one’s attention straight away, as if the bed is the centerpiece of the room. 

Eddie swallows, already nervous. He follows Richie quietly, trying not to be too obvious about how intimidating it is to be in here, given that any piece of furniture around him is probably worth more than all the second hand IKEA shit cluttering his room combined. From the bed, Richie is aiming a slim remote control at a mounted flatscreen on the opposite wall, brow furrowed as he flicks through the options on screen of various streaming platforms. 

“You like River Phoenix, right?” Richie asks, tossing Eddie a smile. “Wanna watch The Last Crusade?” 

“What’s that?” Eddie asks, studying a few scattered papers on Richie’s untidy desk, most of which depict well-drawn, but disturbing cartoons of turtles whipping young people wearing turtle hats with sections of coaster tracks. 

Richie’s startled cry pulls his attention back. “You haven’t seen _Indiana Jones_ , dude?” 

The look of astonishment on Richie’s face is both cute and hilarious, so Eddie smiles, shrugging. “Who’s that?” 

“You’re totally pulling my leg right now,” Richie says, but he sounds unsure. 

Eddie just smiles enigmatically. “Guess you’ll have to show me.” 

“Alright, alright, stop giving me that look or I’ll pass out even quicker from lack of blood to the brain. Get over here already. You can snoop when I’m unconscious.” 

Eddie snickers, ambling over as asked, even though it feels really weird to be watched so intently walking up the three steps to a raised bed and crawling onto it. At first, he sits politely on the edge, but Richie, sprawled against the mound of cushions at the head of the bed, rolls his eyes and lifts his arm, inviting Eddie to slot beneath it, so he does. He was right, before. The hoodie is delectable to snuggle into. 

“I can snoop when you’re sleeping?” 

“Go nuts,” Richie says, clicking a few buttons to get the movie playing. “Dildos are in the top drawer. Hallucinogens and benzos under the bed.”

“I hope you’re joking.” 

“Guess you’ll find out in a min.” 

“I’m probably going to fall asleep too, just so you know.” 

Richie yawns, pulling him in even closer. He presses a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head, which makes him feel all glowy and bright, so he has to hide a smile in Richie’s side. “That’s cool. Wake me up if you need anything, okay? I’ll probably complain, but if you kiss me I guarantee I’ll immediately be cool with it and do whatever you ask.”

“Neat trick,” Eddie replies, playing with one of the toggles hanging from Richie’s hoodie. 

The opening credits are just rolling, but already he can feel himself growing sleepy again. It’s very comfortable on this bed, and Richie is warm, soft, malleable. He’s probably just the kind of sleeper that would allow himself to be manoeuvred without waking. Eddie sighs happily, already content. He’s not going to last five minutes into the movie. 

“Yeah,” Richie mumbles as a reply, “used to be so assertive. Look at what you’ve done to me, Kaspbrak."

Eddie finds his hand and threads their fingers together, repositioning his head on Richie’s chest. “Mmm. Not sorry.”

“Cute,” Richie murmurs, and then he’s slack, already dreaming.


	14. Chapter 14

Eddie does sleep, for a while. Long enough to miss the entirety of Harrison Ford’s tale of heroism, including the part where the fetching River Phoenix portrays his younger self. Not that he minds. It’s becoming rapidly apparent that sleeping on Richie is dangerously easy, and if he’s not careful, could become addictive. He’s the perfect shape, his chest solid, tummy soft, arms long and secure when they wrap around Eddie’s waist. He's long enough that Eddie can stretch out and still have more of him to lie on. He breathes deeply, quietly, and his face is slack and pretty when he dreams, the lines of his usual animated expressions absent, leaving only smooth skin atop a bone structure worthy of a Roman statue.  Eventually, Eddie wakes up, stirred into consciousness by the epic soundtrack playing over the film credits; Richie sleeps on, dead to the world, his face lolled to the side away from Eddie, though his body hasn’t moved an inch. He’s on his back, arm curled around Eddie’s shoulders. 

Eddie doesn’t want to be the sort of weirdo that watches him, so he only allows himself about twenty seconds of staring. Because there's nobody here to judge him however, this inevitably progresses into a longer stretch of time. Luckily, before things get too creepy, Eddie’s phone begins buzzing urgently in his pocket, so he scrambles to grab it, cursing under his breath.  He wriggles out from beneath Richie’s arm, trying to be gentle so as not to wake him, and shimmies right off the bed. It’s his alarm making the phone trill, displaying the words ‘MOM CALL INCOMING’ before he can frantically click the ‘stop’ button. From his position stood beside the bed, Eddie winces, then turns back over his shoulder. Mercifully, Richie is still asleep. Though his arm is now curled around nothing, and there’s a slight frown on his features. His glasses are askew on his face. Perhaps Eddie should have taken them off for him. 

_ Too late now.  _

He pockets his phone and walks to the other end of the room, where he spots a closed door in the wall that he assumes is a closet. Instead, what he finds when he inches the door open is a wet-room, entirely tiled in white slabs, with a shower head in the centre of the ceiling. A bench, also completely tiled, juts out from the far wall, as if one might need a small rest between shampooing and conditioning. _Rich people_. There’s a toilet and a row of cabinets with two sinks as well, but the whole room seems madly extravagant for a teenage boy's ensuite. Nevertheless, he ducks into it and closes the door behind himself; if he talks quietly, he’s fairly sure Richie won’t be able to hear him from the next room. 

He dials his mom’s number quickly, wanting to get this over with. 

She picks up at once. 

“Eddie?” 

“Hi mommy.” 

“Darling, are you alright? Have you eaten dinner?” 

“Yes,” Eddie lies, his stomach clicking back into action as soon as the word leaves his mouth. He can’t remember when he last ate, actually. “How are Lettie and Corey?”

His mom dives straight into a long rant about his cousins with their fevers and tantrums, followed by a stern account of Eddie’s aunt’s incompetence at dealing with it all. He listens, nodding to himself in the mirror above the sink, staring at that bench on the opposite wall - _what does Richie do on it? Does he use it?_ \- and then, finally, his mom sighs, her words tapering off.

“Are you in your pyjamas yet, sweetie?” 

“Mmhmm,” Eddie replies, then fakes a yawn. “Think I’ll get an early night.” 

“Okay, poppet. Remember to take your medicine. Mommy loves you.”

“I know. I will. I love you too.” 

“I’ll call you tomorrow, same time, okay? Be good.”

“Yes, mommy. Night night.” 

“Goodnight, Eddie bear.”

She makes a loud kiss noise, then hangs up. Eddie breathes a long sigh of relief, pocketing the phone again. He looks around himself one more time, the singular thought _'I’m in Richie’s shower room_ ' spinning around his head. He blinks at his reflection, head shaking with the peculiarity of it all.  Stepping back into Richie’s bedroom, it becomes immediately apparent that Richie is awake. Eddie can tell because the TV is playing a music video, something generic and indie, a band made up of skinny white men in dark clothes, on a minimalist set. Richie is flicking disinterestedly through his phone; at the sight, Eddie’s stomach swoops. _How much had he heard?_

He clears his throat, awkwardly, and Richie glances up, an easy smile on his face. His glasses are back on properly. “Hey. Everything ok?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just… my mom.” Eddie’s hands feel too big and clumsy. He sticks them in his pockets. “She’s calling every night to check I’m not snorting lines off a tramp or whatever. I thought it’d be better if I just… ducked in there to deal with her.” 

“Hey, dude, it’s totally fine,” Richie says, swiping a hand through the air. “Do what you gotta do. I just stuck The 1975 on to give you some privacy.” 

He gestures to the TV, where the band continues crooning. Eddie has never heard of them, but he nods like he has, and slowly his stomach starts to settle. Richie inclines his head, jerkily, beckoning Eddie back over, so he goes, feeling shy now that the nap is over. What will they do now? It’s a quarter past nine on a Saturday; is Richie going to suggest they go out? Is Eddie going to be forced into central Derry right now to sneak into a bar or go to some horrendous party with the millions of people Richie seems to count as friends?

“I’m hungry,” Richie says instead, the moment Eddie reaches the side of the bed. He stretches, yawning, then shuffles towards Eddie so he can kneel in front of him, a hand on either shoulder. “You fancy dining at Chez Richie again?” 

Eddie’s mouth twitches. “What’s on the menu?” 

“That depends entirely on what’s in the fridge. Shall we investigate?” 

Eddie nods, his smile breaking forth when Richie leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. A pulsating glow forms in the spot where his lips had touched, but Eddie forces himself not to do anything weird like cup it with his hand.  Richie climbs off the bed, his joints clicking, and finds Eddie’s hand. “I’m an old man,” he grumbles, and tugs Eddie along, out of the room and through a maze of corridors until they reach a farmhouse style kitchen, open-plan and in terracotta colours like Eddie has seen in Hollywood films. There’s a breakfast bar with three stools, copper pots and pans hung overhead, a big aga-style cooker tucked into an exposed brick chimney, and every appliance Eddie can imagine on the rustic wooden counters. The floor, all polished red brick, is cool beneath his socked feet. 

“Is there any part of your house that isn’t immaculate?” Eddie asks as Richie pulls out one of the bar stools and ushers him to sit on it. 

“Don’t be fooled, Eds,” Richie says, doing a little spin on the way to the huge double door fridge, “rich people houses are all smoke and mirrors. We have a cleaner who comes in to keep it pretty. My mom and dad haven’t touched a broom in years.” 

“A cleaner,” Eddie echoes, impressed, “wow.” 

“Mmm,” Richie says unhappily, nose buried in the open fridge. “We have, uh, eggs. And various organic vegetables.”

“Who gets those?” 

Richie glances over his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“The eggs. The vegetables. I’m guessing your parents don’t go to, like, Trader Joe’s.”

Richie barks a laugh, head shaking as he turns back to the fridge. “No, no. They get them delivered.” 

“Oh.” 

Eddie shifts uncomfortably on his high stool. He’s never touched wealth like the Toziers must have, to be so flippant about having organic produce delivered to the door on a regular basis, to have a kitchen like this, so huge and kitted out, but eerily clean and empty. 

“I could make omelettes?” Richie suggests, turning to gauge the reaction. “The extent of my culinary prowess when you’re around is apparently flat, round foods. If you prefer, we can have cookies, pizza bagels, or tortillas.” 

Eddie laughs, suddenly overwhelmingly glad of Richie’s lighthearted silliness. It distracts from the unnervingly neat, proper order of the house, which Eddie can tell will take a long time to get used to. Not that he will necessarily get the chance to get used to it, of course. There’s no guarantee he’ll ever be back here again after this, given Richie’s blasé attitude towards dating, or sex, or whatever it is that they’re currently entangled in. 

“Omelettes sound great,” Eddie says quickly, before he can start to spiral. “Have you made them before?”

“Mais oui, monsieur,” Richie honks, piling a carton of eggs on top of the various vegetables he’s hauled out of the fridge. “Je suis désolé de dire que nous ne mangeons pas de viande dans la maison Tozier. Nous devrons manger des omelettes aux légumes au fromage.” 

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “Was that… were you just putting on a Voice? Or was that actually French?”

Richie deposits his pile of food onto the countertop, throwing Eddie a wink. “A vous de me dire, mon ange.”

“Shit,” Eddie mutters, feeling suddenly dumb. He really has been underestimating Richie’s intelligence, it seems. “Anything other intimidatingly clever facets of your personality you’re hiding?” 

“Pssht,” Richie says, beginning to chop a zucchini with precise, quick knife movements, “s’just private school education, the French.” His blade speeds up, dicing the vegetable into fine pieces in seconds. 

Eddie’s hands grip the stool. "Private school? Don't you go to Derry High? Bev and Bill said you're in classes with them." 

"Ah, yes, well I transferred. Private school... didn't agree with me." He doesn't elaborate, but the way he says it, mouth twisted into a frown, holds Eddie's tongue when he thinks about probing. "But I've graduated your fine institution now, anyway. Well, almost. Come September." 

"Oh yeah," Eddie remembers. "Forgot you were a senior."

“An older man," Richie quips, winking at him. "But to answer your question, yes I have several intimidating talents I've been holding off on impressing you with. I’m also extremely good at underwater handstands, freestyle limericks, any dares a soul can dream up, charming my way out of getting fired from the world’s most ridiculous excuse for a theme park for forking over a giant turtle to a guy I’m crushing on, aaaand...” he pauses, tapping his chin with the point of the blade in a heart-stopping action, “...ooh! Deepthroating pretty much any object smaller than a perfume bottle. But I don’t need to tell you that.” 

He winks again, and Eddie’s face feels like it catches fire. “What- how do you even know a thing like that?” he splutters.

“Mike and a few others discovered the trick when I accidentally inhaled a plastic cocktail stirrer shaped like a palm tree one night and didn’t choke,” Richie explains, scooping all of the now chopped vegetables into a bowl. “The rest of the evening was spent with them giving me various things to shove down my throat. Nothing fun though,” he adds, catching Eddie’s alarmed expression. “I don’t think Mike has any desire to get up in this,” Richie says, gesturing to himself, “after the reggae festival incident of ‘16.” 

Eddie thinks about asking for an elaboration on this, but decides against it. They chat in much the same way while Richie finishes preparing the omelettes, dicing and whisking and flavouring with such practiced ease that it astounds Eddie. He must cook all the time, Eddie realises, and wonders whether that’s because he had to learn out of necessity, as he did. If that's the case, he's a lot better at it than Eddie is. Perhaps he learned French culinary skills along with the language at this fancy private school.

Richie jokes and teases him constantly, conjuring blush after blush in Eddie’s poor cheeks. He'll develop rosacea at this point. He goes fairly easy on the flirting compared to how Eddie knows he can be, but because of the situation - the two of them, alone, in Richie’s house, after having slept cuddled up together on his bed for several hours - makes every vague suggestive comment a thousand times more potent. By the time Richie presents him with a frankly delicious looking and smelling omelette, half folded in the professional way, Eddie is both starving and dizzy from all the blushing.  He makes himself take small bites, chewing slowly so he doesn’t embarrass himself by choking, though he’d really like to wolf the whole thing down in under twenty seconds. Richie is a very good cook, which is as much of a revelation as the second language had been. 

“S’it okay?” Richie asks, still flipping his own omelette in the pan. “If you like it a little crispier, I can-”

“It’s _so_ good,” Eddie sighs around a morsel. Richie laughs, a very faint blush speckling his cheekbones. _Interesting_. “Seriously. Are you hiding a cartoon rat under your chef hat or something? This is restaurant good.” 

Richie beams, looking pleased. “Aw shucks. But alas, nope, only room for turtles in my hats. Anyway, it’s just eggs and veg. No cheese for the dairy-phobe.”

Eddie doesn’t know how to feel about the fact he almost certainly hadn’t been the one to tell Richie about his dairy intolerance, yet he seems to have committed it to memory. He decides it would be tactful not to mention it, given that he’s a guest in this house.  After a while, Richie switches off the stove and comes round to eat his own omelette on the stool next to Eddie’s, blabbering on about some ‘secret’ to omelette preparation that involves ratios of oil to batter. Eddie, having finished his omelette now, just watches the animation of his face, noting the little quirks that are all too easy to miss from far away. The dimple that appears in his left cheek. The three errant strands of hair that bounce into his face, magnetised to the lenses of his glasses so he repeatedly has to flick them away. The crooked incisors that peek out when he grins really wide.  He eats like a pig, honestly, no concern about manners, so Eddie has to scold him three times about the fact he can see the masticated egg rolling around in his mouth. Even that doesn’t stop Eddie from all the adoring gazing, however, which is more than a little concerning. 

Before he can worry too hard about his own level of infatuation, a woman’s voice pricks both of their ears, sounding far off at first, and then getting gradually closer. It’s a constant monotone, with no responding voice. Richie sighs heavily, toying with a piece of omelette with his fork. 

“Ah, shit,” he mutters, then shoots Eddie an apologetic glance. “Gird your loins, sweetheart. I’ll do the best I can to protect you from the grizzly’s teeth.” 

Just as Eddie is processing that statement - had Richie just referred to his own mother as an angry bear? - a woman enters the kitchen. She is young, or at least looks that way, with the smooth collagen-rich skin of a Real Housewife (Eddie’s mom makes him watch it), and glossy, dark hair cropped neatly at her shoulders. Not a speck of grey to be seen. 

Against her ear, a slim, French manicured hand holds a phone. The screen clacks against her bullet-sized gold earring as she walks. Seamlessly, her sentence moves from “-find another way around it, Luis, I need that French armoire by Monday-” into “-for goodness sake, Richie, do you have to cook eggs in the middle of the night? I would like to be able to walk into my own kitchen without the pungent smell of- oh.” 

She stops, halfway across the room, on her way to a small room that Eddie can only just see into, off the kitchen. Inside, the walls are lined with shelves, stacked with, from what Eddie can see, bottles and bottles of wine. Richie’s mom swivels on the spot to face them, clicking the end call button on her phone with a pleasing tap. The voice on the other end sounded as though it was mid-sentence. She’s wearing a loose white blouse, made of a floaty, silky material, tucked into a black pencil skirt with a bizarre looping of heavily buckled belts around the waist. 

“You failed to mention that we have a guest, Richie,” she says coolly, and offers Eddie something that could be considered a smile, if he squinted. “Do introduce us.” 

She ducks briefly into the small room to select a bottle of red, seeming to know exactly which one she wants, before sweeping back out again. She’s wearing slippers with the ensemble, which might usually soften someone's appearance, but seems to do nothing for her. She puts her phone and the bottle down on the breakfast bar while Richie casually chews the last of his omelette, barely acknowledging her.

“Mom, Eddie, Eddie, mom.” He gestures between them with his fork, then lets it fall to the plate with a clatter that makes both his mom and Eddie wince. “Eddie likes your weird 50’s living room.”

Richie’s mom, using some sort of electronic wine-opening device, glances over and smiles more broadly, though it looks disturbingly practiced. “Do you, dear? Thank you. It was featured in Home and Garden, you know. A three page spread.” 

“O-oh,” Eddie manages, doing his best to ignore the thoroughly amused grin Richie is sending his way, “yes, it’s very... accurate.”

The little device stops whirring, and she pours at least a quarter of the bottle into a bulbous, thinly stemmed glass. “You must be an interior design fan like myself, Edward.” 

“Eddie,” Richie corrects, sliding off the bar stool to collect their plates. Silently, Eddie begs him not to leave his side, but he doesn’t seem to hear. “Or Eds, if you really wanna piss him off.” 

She smiles again, at Richie this time, and there’s no hint of warmth to it. He chuckles as he walks past her, opening a hidden dishwasher and stacking the plates into it. 

“And how did you meet my charming son, Eddie?” 

She takes a pointed sip, eyes locked to Eddie’s over the rim of her glass. Eddie clears his throat before speaking, hoping his blush isn’t too deep. “We… errr. Well, we have a mutual friend. Beverly.” 

“We met at Turtle Cove,” Richie says, straightening back up. “Your favourite place, ma. And Eddie’s too.” 

Richie’s mom rolls her eyes, sending her mascara black lashes ceiling-ward. “Oh, Eddie, please tell me your appreciation for design prevents you from willingly spending any significant amount of time in that place.” 

“It’s a sore on the face of the Earth,” Eddie says, honestly. “I hate every single plaster turtle.” 

“Aw, c’mon,” Richie wheedles, leaning over the breakfast bar towards him, “it’s the spot we first clapped eyes on each other!” 

“A moment I’m sure he treasures,” Richie’s mom offers dryly, one perfect eyebrow peaked. It’s the kind of thing that, if one of Richie’s friends had said it, would make everyone laugh. Would make Eddie laugh, probably. But this is his _mom_. The derision in her voice is damn near scathing. “Is your friend going to be staying with us tonight?” 

“Yes,” Richie answers in a clipped voice Eddie doesn’t blame him for. “I’d offer him a glass of Malbec, but I know you prefer to finish the bottle.” 

Ignoring him entirely, Richie’s mom turns to Eddie again. “We have several guest rooms for you to pick from. I designed them all myself, so I’d be interested to see which one you choose-”

“He’s staying in my room, mom,” Richie interrupts, eyes rolling. “It’s big enough to fit eighty-four people.” 

Her lips part, as if to object, but she glances between them, and tips some more wine into her mouth instead. When she lowers the glass, she makes to stand up, dusting off her skirt, and says, “It’s up to you, of course. Please wipe down the stove, Richie. And open a window, I can still smell the oil.” 

She bids both of them a polite goodnight, then swipes the phone off the breakfast bar and sashays out of the room. Her figure is alarmingly slight, Eddie notices as she goes. _Is that glass of wine her entire dinner?_

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” Richie says, frowning. He turns on the tap too hard and sprays hot water over the frying pan, splashing himself in the process. “She was doubly Cruella tonight.” 

Eddie shrugs to disguise the way his heart is pounding. “She’s not so bad.” 

“Yeah, easy for you to say. She’s about to hire you as her Interior Design apprentice,” Richie teases, a smile finally breaking through. “Can’t believe you shit on TC like that, you traitor.” 

“I do hate it there,” Eddie says firmly, “but nobody seems to give a damn what I think. I end up there most days anyway.” 

“Yeah, because you wanna come flirt with me,” Richie says, smiling wickedly. Eddie doesn’t dispute the fact, and the longer the silence stretches, the more Richie’s eyebrows raise up his forehead. “Wait- is that really why-?”

“Can we go back to your room now?” Eddie asks, innocently. 

“You’re a tease,” Richie groans out, but he’s smiling happily, scooting around the bar to reach for Eddie’s hand. Eddie hops off the stool, grinning back. “You need anything else, angel? I can totally snag you the wine if you want. She’ll probably just think she forgot she drank it all.” 

“No!” Eddie cries. “I want your mom to like me, not think I’m some alcoholic kleptomaniac.” 

“You want my mom to like you?” Richie asks, bewildered. “Why? She’s the friggin’ White Witch, Eds.”

Eddie shrugs. “She’s your mom.”

Richie gives him a funny look, but doesn’t press it. He leads Eddie back through the house by the hand, which makes Eddie incredibly nervous, in case his mom is lurking around the next corner, ready to settle her cold, appraising eye on their interlaced fingers. What would she think of it, if she saw? Does she already suspect the real reason Eddie is staying in Richie’s room as opposed to the intricately furnished guest rooms she’s toiled over? 

She is so entirely different to Eddie’s mom, in almost every way, except for the judgemental air that wafts around like a cloud of perfume. Eddie’s mom would rather die than see Eddie hold hands with a human his age under her roof, let alone a boy. Does that mean that Richie’s mom would also suffer some sort of performative anxiety attack upon discovering their romantic connection? It’s difficult to imagine Richie’s mom throwing her arms up and wailing like Eddie’s mom is wont to do when she’s distressed.  Eventually, they reach Richie’s room again, running into nobody on the way, thank goodness. When Richie shuts the door, he breathes a quiet but relieved sigh. 

“What’s your mom’s name?” Eddie asks, and Richie makes a small groaning noise. 

“Please can we not talk about my mom in here. This is my safe place.” 

“Sorry,” Eddie says awkwardly, and Richie instantly melts. 

He pulls Eddie into a hug. “No, shit, I’m sorry. She gets me all…” he does a little shivery movement. “Anyway. Her name’s Margaret. I like to call her Maggie, because I’m a little shit of a son and she hates it. Thinks it’s ‘common’.” 

He releases Eddie then, ambling over towards the bed again. Eddie follows, making the decision to stop thinking about Richie’s mom at once, for all sorts of reasons, but mostly because Richie is obviously uncomfortable with the subject. He climbs up on the bed and Eddie follows, suddenly gripped with nerves again now that they’re once more sealed in this room, alone, on a big, soft bed-

“You wanna play a video game?” Richie asks, switching on the flat screen again. 

Eddie eyes him speculatively. “Is that really what you wanna do?” 

Richie laughs. “You got somethin’ else in mind?” 

A warmth rises in Eddie’s cheeks. He juts his lower lip out. “Nope. A game sounds fun.” 

“Cool,” Richie says, springing off the bed to go and fiddle with the electronics heaped on the floor below his TV. “I’d have you pinned as a Mario kinda guy. Am I close?” 

“Sure,” Eddie says, wondering how long he’ll be able to keep up the pretence that he’s got any experience with video games whatsoever. He used to play a game called Crazy Taxi at an arcade in the mall with Bev when they were younger, which he remembers being stupid and hilarious, but then it broke and never got replaced, and they were never that bothered about playing any of the others. “Is this how you’d usually spend your Saturday night?” 

Richie slots a disc into a black plastic tray that retracts back into itself, then straightens up, knees clicking. “Ow. Uh, well there are usually less sexy, adorably anxious little minxes sprawled across my bed while I jab uselessly at the controller, but yeah.” 

Eddie de-sprawls, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

“It’s a compliment!” 

“I’m not anxious,” Eddie insists, taking the controller Richie hands him with a glower. “But if I were, it would be because your house is huge and intimidating. And your mom is scarily put together in a way that makes me feel kind of like gum on her stiletto.” 

“She has that effect, yeah.” Richie presses various buttons to flick through loading screens and menus. “I thought you had some big scary mom? How can you be afraid of mine?”

“I’m not afraid!” Eddie squawks. “You mom is nothing compared to mine, trust me.”

“Oh yeah?” Richie aims a grin at him. “Is this a mom war? Are we gonna pit them against each other?” 

Eddie scoffs. “My mom has eighty pounds on yours. She’d win.”

“I didn’t tell you the categories. Round one is death glares.” 

“Okay, yours wins that one. My mom goes for the guilt-trip. Puppy dog eyes all the way.” 

“Ooooh,” Richie says, wincing. “Also effective. I think this might be a draw.”

They continue this debate for the whole of the game, which Eddie does not get, even a little bit. It’s laughable how often he makes the ‘Game Over’ screen appear, but Richie just finds it hilarious, eventually abandoning his own controller in favour of slotting himself behind Eddie, arms threaded around his waist to help him with the buttons. Hours pass, both of them teary-eyed with laughter, and Eddie’s whole body warm and glowing with the feeling of Richie’s against him. He knows it’s late, probably after midnight, by the time Richie ends the game, and he’s in two minds about whether to feel out the possibility of some less PG-rated action.  But Richie is yawning again, his earlier nap having barely scraped the surface of his exhaustion, probably. He’s staying awake for Eddie’s benefit, and it’s lovely, but unnecessary. Despite all his mini snatches of sleep today, Eddie feels equally ready to drop. 

“You’re tired,” Eddie points out as Richie flops back against the pillows. 

“Nuh uh,” Richie replies. “I got a truckload of energy still. You wanna fool around a little? I’ll make you see stars.” 

“How about you make me count sheep,” Eddie suggests, sliding off the bed to hide his deep, deep flush at the casual suggestion. 

“Hey, where you goin’?” Richie calls, but he doesn’t move. 

“I’m slipping into something more comfortable.” 

This perks Richie’s attention up. He rolls over to watch Eddie unzipping his bag over on the hanging chair. “Hot. What is it? Lingerie? Fursuit? Something sexier?” 

Eddie pulls out what he’s looking for, eyes rolling. “Yes. My sexy, sexy superhero pyjamas.” 

Richie rolls dramatically onto his back, clutching his heart. “Oh, have mercy. They're my weakness.”

“I’m brushing my teeth, and then I’m putting you to bed. You’re delirious.” 

“Can I put you to bed after?” 

Eddie ignores him, heart thumping, and closes himself into the bathroom to do his business and go through his nightly routine. When he emerges, Richie has quite obviously fallen asleep, but startles awake at the sound of the door shutting. He pats the space beside him on the bed, sluggish with sleepiness, and Eddie can’t keep the smile off his face as he climbs beneath the covers. 

“Go brush your teeth and put some pyjamas on,” Eddie commands. 

“I sleep naked,” Richie mumbles, eyes closing. 

Eddie kicks him from beneath the covers. “Come on, you can’t sleep in your work clothes that’s so gross.” 

Richie’s answering smile is loose but fond. “Can you undress me?” 

“No.”

“I’m too tired to brush my teeth. It’s your fault. You kept me up all last night with your seductive powers.” 

“If you brush your teeth, we can make out a little.” 

Richie sits bolt upright, so abruptly that Eddie outright laughs. He shoots Eddie a wink, struggling to the edge of the bed over Eddie’s legs, and stumbling towards the bathroom. Leaking through the crack of the ajar bathroom door comes the whirr of an electric toothbrush, which satisfies Eddie enough that he rolls onto his side, flicking through the messages on his phone. He’s received one from Stan, which is nice - a silly video link to something called TikTok, which is an app Eddie has to download. Richie had entered the password to his WiFi into Eddie's phone earlier, so he’s enjoying a proper internet connection for once. It’s much faster than one or two bars that leak through from Stan’s house. 

Eddie’s still giggling at the video Stan had sent him when Richie swans back out wearing just his underwear. He strolls across the room, not tossing Eddie a glance, as if this is normal. So Eddie just stays quiet, turning slowly cherry-coloured, and tries to concentrate on the Tik Toks. 

“I will wear these to protect your innocent eyes from my indecency,” Richie says, bent over, digging through a drawer in his chest. He pulls out a pair of tartan pyjama pants, and Eddie has the quick reflexes, luckily, to avert his eyes before the inevitable removal of the underwear happens. He watches the same TikTok video three times while he waits for Richie to clothe himself, not letting his eyes stray until he feels the bed dip beside him. “Are you watching Vines so you don’t peek at my sensual naked body?” 

“Vine is dead,” Eddie squeaks, parroting the phrase Bev had said mournfully for several weeks, despite the fact he has no real grasp on what it means. He’s never watched a Vine. “Are you less naked now?”

“You do remember that you have already seen my-”

“Yes!” Eddie cuts in, locking his phone and placing it on the bedside table. “But this is… I don’t want to just assume- it’s totally different when-”

“You are so fucking cute,” Richie informs him, and when Eddie rolls over to look, he is inordinately gorgeous. Leant up on one elbow, dark hair and gold skin, his chest bare and his shoulders taut with the weight of all the hours they’ve been supporting his tall frame. “Can I kiss you now?” 

Eddie nods, a bit speechless at the sight of him. Luckily, Richie doesn’t speculate on the silence, and instead leans over to kiss him into the pillow, his lips cool and sparkly with peppermint. It’s obvious, eager though Richie is to continue the kissing, that his fatigue is slowly but surely overwhelming everything else. His technique is lacking its usual finesse, and his hands move clumsily over Eddie’s waist.  Eventually, Eddie pushes his shoulder, gently, and Richie lets himself fall back, sinking into the mattress. 

“Okay,” Eddie says sternly, “sleep.” 

Richie yawns, nodding. “Yeah. But tomorrow we do that again?” 

“If I say yes will you shut up and sleep?” 

“A very good chance, yeah.” 

“Then yes.” 

“Eds?” Richie asks, voice a bit smaller. 

His eyes are closed, so Eddie takes pity on him and doesn't call him out for the shortened name. “Mm?”

“Would it be weird if, uh, I held you a bit?” 

Eddie has to take a second to breathe around the impact of that strike. A spot in the centre of his chest throbs hard. “Y-yes, of course.” 

“It would be weird?” 

“No!” Eddie exclaims, too quickly, and then wants to smack himself. “I- we can, um. We can do that.” 

“It’s just it was nice, before. In the teacup,” Richie explains, his words bumping together in their haste. “You’re nice to hold.” 

The smile smoothes thickly over Eddie’s mouth. “Dork. Lift your arm.”

He smiles as well, doing as he’s told, and Eddie squirms himself beneath it, pressing up against Richie’s bare chest. He lets his hand fall where it wants - splaying over Richie’s ribs - and settles himself into a comfortable position as Richie’s arm lays itself gently over him. It’s almost immediately too warm, Eddie can tell, because Richie is one of those boys with the internal temperature of a melted marshmallow, but it’s so wonderful, to be held tightly right here, in this huge bed, breathing in patchouli and mint and the faint salty aroma of the omelettes they’d eaten earlier, that Eddie doesn’t care. He burrows in tighter, ignoring Richie’s snicker when he does it, and settles in for a delicious, long sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up for an extremely nsfw next chapter. Thanks so much for all the lurrrve <3 <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter of sex, be warned haha

When Eddie wakes up, it’s to the sound of Richie’s gargled singing as he brushes his teeth with the bathroom door wide open. He’s singing ‘I Will Survive’ as far as Eddie can tell, which is probably the most bizarre way Eddie has ever been woken up, including the time his mom poured cold milk all over him because she thought he was running a fever and had read it helped. He rolls over, swallowed at once by the tidalwave of covers still thrown into a curl from where Richie had flung them off his body. The faucet shuts off, and the buzz of the toothbrush silences, allowing for Richie’s off tune Gloria Gaynor rendition to come through clear as a bell. He really is a terrible singer. He saunters out of the bathroom, shirtless, a streak of white on the corner of his mouth that he wipes off with the back of his hand. He catches Eddie’s eye, peeking out from the pile of duvet, and grins. 

“Mornin’ sleepy,” he calls cheerfully, pep fully restored after what Eddie suspects, from his grogginess, was a long, deep sleep. “You want a shower or something?” 

He flings himself onto the bed, immediately rolling towards Eddie to plant a kiss to his lips before he can be stopped. Eddie squawks in alarm, pushing him away and covering his mouth. 

“Don’t! I haven’t brushed my teeth,” Eddie complains, flushing. 

Richie just laughs, falling onto his back, hair splaying over the pillow in all directions. “You taste like cherry pop to me, babe.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Don't move,” he commands, struggling upright and shifting to the edge of the bed while Richie makes a show of remaining perfectly, rigidly still. He makes his way over to his bag, still unsteady from bed-legs, and digs out his wash bag. “Will you shut up?” Eddie asks crossly, because Richie has begun whining like an abandoned puppy. “I’ll be two seconds.”

“I’ll have moved on by then,” Riche tells him. “I’m a fickle lover. And I heard your mom is looking for a man.” 

Eddie holds up his middle finger, then slings the wash bag over his shoulder and heads for the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he re-emerges, snorting derisively when he sees Richie has fallen back to sleep. He rouses easily when Eddie settles back beside him however, rolling on top of him with a lurid growl in order to smash their lips together. Eddie lets him have it, perfectly content to indulge in the morning make out session now that they’re both minty fresh.

“Think I do want that shower,” Eddie mumbles after a while, because Richie’s fingers are starting to stray beneath his pyjamas, and Eddie has slept in his clothes twice since he last washed properly. “When do you have to go to work?” 

“I don’t,” Richie replies. “My day off.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, blunt with surprise. “I didn’t think you got those.” 

“Much to the Turtle God’s chagrin, employees of the park do actually have to be given basic rights.”

“So…” Eddie feels himself growing warm, considering the implications of having, potentially, a whole day ahead of him alone with Richie. In his house.

Richie raises an eyebrow. “Mmm?” 

“The… the shower,” Eddie reminds him, chickening out. 

Richie sighs dramatically, but hauls himself up to lead Eddie into the bathroom and begin explaining the complicated waterfall wet-room shower controls. Eddie is not listening, interesting as all the buttons and options for water pressure and patterns are, because he is staring at Richie’s bare chest, all glossy and warm-toned in the bathroom light, trying to work out how to subtly coax him into taking off the pants as well. 

“So, yeah, that’s about it,” Richie finishes, patting the shower panel like it's a trained pup. “Need anything, just give me a shout. You may hesitate to trouble me, but let me assure you that I will gladly burst in here should the need arise no matter how naked and wet you are should you need me-”

“I need you,” Eddie blurts, taking a bold step into his space, heart thumping. “I- I need you to show me how the shower works.” 

Richie frowns. “But I just…”

Eddie gives him a long, suggestive look, which quickly smooths out the wrinkle in his brow. “Stay and show me,” Eddie urges, holding his gaze. What is it about Richie that sheds away his inhibitions like this? “Please.” 

“God fucking damn,” Richie replies, then grabs him by the shirt and tugs him closer to kiss. “You beg me like that, I will show you every single setting.” 

With his left hand, over Eddie’s shoulder, Richie pushes a button and turns on the shower. The broad, circular head is in the centre of the room, so the cascade of water that pours out doesn’t reach them, locked together at the edge of this entirely too-big room, Richie practically pressing Eddie against the wall. Eddie is suddenly furiously hot, the heat whisking through him as though he’d been directly beneath the spray when it began falling. He can feel his eagerness prickling beneath his skin, already desperate to feel Richie against him without clothes in the way. He reaches his arms overhead, and like they're in tune, Richie seems to just know to pull the top he’s wearing up and off, chucking it to the counter beside the sink. Now that the prospect of sex is out there, Eddie is growing ravenous with want, so he slips his hands down Richie’s back and straight into the back of his pyjama pants, to smooth over the delicious bulge of his ass and squeeze, as Richie is wont to do to him. Richie lets out a moan behind his closed lips, still locked to Eddie's.

“Take these off,” Eddie groans, muffled, and pings the elastic of Richie’s waistband against his hip. 

“Eager to get me wet?” Richie jokes, but his hands tremble as they shuck the pants down his legs. 

Eddie’s memory of the sight of Richie’s naked form, long and lithe and wiry with muscle, had faded in his mind until now. He drags his eyes over Richie from head to toe, stomach squeezing with nerves when he remembers how it had felt to pull Richie inside of him with walls of muscle he hadn’t even known were there. How it had looked when Richie collapsed in on himself with pleasure, spun out into ecstasy just by the feeling of thrusting himself into Eddie over and over. 

“Yes,” Eddie replies, and begins stripping himself of his own pyjama pants. Richie watches with wide eyes, swallowing hard as Eddie kicks them away, then takes Richie by the hand and pulls him under the water. “This is an incredible shower.” 

Richie laughs, raking fingers through Eddie’s flop of wet hair before kissing him again. “Yeah? I’ve never really liked it. Too big for just me.” 

“I think we've found a solution to that problem,” Eddie replies, frustrated because he has to surge right up onto his toes to kiss Richie, and Richie keeps pulling out of his reach for the fun of it. “Richie,” Eddie whines the third time this happens. “Quit it.” 

“What, baby? What do you want?” 

Eddie fixes him with a very wet glare. “I want you to stop dicking around and kiss me properly.”

“Yeah?” Richie teases, smirking. He's not wearing his glasses anymore, so he brushes droplets from his long lashes, head tipped slighly out of the spray. “Anything else?” 

Instead of answering, Eddie reaches up to hook a hand around the back of Richie’s neck and pulls him down to his level. “I want you to sit over there and let me blow you.” 

Eddie gestures to the bench, which has, after much consideration, become ripe with potential opportunity in Eddie's mind. Richie’s eyes go comically wide. “Shit, really? Eds, you don’t gotta-”

Eddie shuts him up with a kiss, keeping him stooped into position so that he can do it fiercely, firmly, to show how much he means it. It’s true that usually the idea might squick him out, and blowing another man has certainly never appealed to Eddie before, but as is the case with most other sexually related prospects, meeting Richie has transformed his opinion. 

“Go and sit over there,” Eddie commands, and miraculously, Richie does as he’s told. Outside of the shower spray, Richie’s long hair is plastered to his scalp and neck, black licks of it sticking to his wet skin like curled leeches. His eyes are aglow with eagerness as he seats himself onto the bench, eyes locked to Eddie’s as he awaits the next instruction. And Eddie has nothing. He has no idea how to do any of this, so he guesses he will just have to wing it. He takes a few slow steps towards Richie, until he’s standing in the ‘V’ of Richie’s open legs. Richie is touching himself, gently, loosely, with one hand, just observing Eddie’s movements. It’s unspeakably hot. “You’re so hot,” Eddie accidentally says, then feels foolish. Richie’s lips curve into a smile. “I mean. Well, obviously I think that-”

“C’mere, gorgeous,” Richie tells him, reaching out. “Come show me.” 

Eddie goes to him, bending over to kiss him for a moment, hands on either one of Richie’s shoulders. “I’ve never done this before.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to-”

“Shut up,” Eddie interrupts. “I’m just letting you know. You can tell me what to do if you want.” 

“Well, shit.” Richie swallows again when Eddie pulls back to consider how to get down on his knees on this hard tiled floor. “Wait,” Richie says, realising the problem. “Let me get you a towel.” 

Confused by the idea that Richie is apparently keen to cover Eddie's modesty for the duration of the blowjob, Eddie only watches, bewildered, while Richie moves off to procure a towel, fold it up haphazardly, then place it on the floor in front of the bench. He gets back into his seat, and Eddie suddenly understands. He sinks to the ground, the folded towel cushioning his knees, and Richie smiles triumphantly. He reaches out to cup Eddie's cheek.

“Eds, seriously, if this is not for you, we can stop-”

“How many times do I need to tell you to shut up before you’ll do it?” 

“Maybe once more. Just to indulge my kink.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“God, yeah. That’s the stuff.” Richie grins, Eddie rolls his eyes, and that’s the limit of what Eddie can take before leaning in and flattening his tongue to the head of Richie’s dick. “Fuck,” Richie mutters at once. 

The taste is almost disappointing, in that there’s not much taste at all. Eddie had steeled himself for the salty onslaught that Bev always describes in her graphic retellings of sexual shenanigans, but Richie tastes the same here as he does everywhere else, of clean skin and that heady, incense smell, along with the warm shower water. Eddie’s mouth fits around him like it was made to do so, lips stretched wide to accommodate the size, but not in an uncomfortable way. In fact, Eddie finds it all very natural, in a way he would not have expected; Richie’s hands slide through his damp hair, raking it back like he’s giving him a slick hairdo. 

Eddie takes as much in as he can, experimenting with the sensation of having something so big slip into his mouth, until it nudges the back of his throat. He can feel when he needs to pull back, so he does, slowly, taking his time, and Richie groans in a way that sparks tiny flickers of excitement all along the back of Eddie’s neck, where Richie’s fingers trace up and down. After that, Eddie finds his rhythm fairly quickly, listening intently to the noises Richie makes - of which there are many - to deduce what feels best. 

Richie likes to be taken deeply, to let Eddie suck him with the steady focus that he demonstrates in most areas of his life, this being no exception. He slides his hands up Richie’s inner thighs, more for his own benefit than anything, then digs his fingernails into the soft, squishy flesh there - practically the only place Richie has any doughy parts. He can hear it when Richie starts to lose his mind, can feel how his fists curl, how he can’t hold Eddie’s eye when he flicks a gaze upwards. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Richie chants, hips squirming left and right as Eddie takes him as deeply as possible, eyes locked to his. “Oh my God, angel. I’m gonna come soon. Like, I’m so close - fuck.” 

Upon hearing the news, Eddie regretfully pulls off, switching to the use of his fist, which he seals tightly around Richie’s dick to replicate the circle of his lips. He speeds up the movement of his hand, until Richie’s head thunks back against the tiled wall, whimpering, and comes all over Eddie’s wrist, the bench, and his own lap. It’s a glorious thing to behold. When he’s done, and his eyes refocus, Richie leans forwards and kisses him straight away, hauling Eddie off the floor and into his lap to plunge his tongue into Eddie’s mouth, no qualms about tasting himself there. Eddie kisses back eagerly, especially hungry for him now. 

“Blow my fucking mind, why don’t you,” Richie mutters against him, still dazed. He pulls their lips apart, pupils so wide they swallow any colour detectable in his irises. “Let me take you apart again, please.” 

Eddie just nods, also entranced by the steam-thick air, the humidity, and the tang of Richie’s flavour in the back of his throat. He swallows, wanting to chase it, and Richie stands him up, snatches the towel off the floor - now soaked - and places it on the bench where he’d been sitting. 

“Kneel right there, baby,” Richie tells him, guiding him into place. “Let me just grab something.” 

Richie’s hands leave his skin, and for a horrible few seconds, all Eddie can feel is the kiss of the shower steam, the trickles of moisture running down his back. He leans his hands against the wall, head bowing forward from the pressure of the nervous excitement rushing all around him. Then he’s back, pressing close to Eddie with his lips on his neck, and everything makes sense again. Richie squeezes something out of a bottle into his hands, whispering soothing, but mostly incomprehensible, words into Eddie’s ear. 

Guessing what’s coming, Eddie tells his body - currently pulled taut as a bow string - to relax. “Can you talk to me more?” Eddie asks, mortified by the desperate edge to his voice. 

“Yeah,” Richie replies, dropping an octave at once, “I forgot you liked that. So fucking sexy.” 

As he talks, his fingers, now slippery and coated in gel, move their way down his back, taking their time getting to the dip in his spine, then sliding lower. 

“I dreamed about doing this last night,” Richie says, voice like a sputtering candle in the wet heat of the room, making Eddie shiver. “Of opening you up, like a flower. So pretty. And fucking you until you're weak from it. Like before, in the aquarium, having you all spread out beneath me, desperate. Fuck. You’re a perfect creature. I could do this forever.” 

Two fingers slip between Eddie’s cheeks, and his jaw falls slack at the sensation. It tickles, at first, because Richie is being gentle, reverent, like he so often is with Eddie, holding open car doors and carrying him on his back so he doesn’t have to walk too far. So Eddie, at once needing more, pushes his hips back into the touch, until Richie groans again, other hand wrapping around Eddie’s hip as he presses those clever fingers firmly against his hole. 

“Please, Rich,” Eddie whispers, almost lost to the roar of the shower still going behind them. 

“I got you baby,” Richie assures him, then drops a kiss to his shoulder as he slides one slick finger right into him, up to the hilt. Eddie tips his head back, gasping, and Richie seals his mouth over the join between his shoulder and neck, teeth sinking in as he thrusts that finger in and out. 

It’s a gruelling build, Richie taking his sweet time, presumably because he’s enjoying the sight of Eddie making a tit of himself in response to his ministrations. He works Eddie open at a torturous pace, burrowing his fingers deep, curling them precisely, as if he knows exactly where the button wired directly to Eddie’s well of pleasure lies. Eddie’s hips move of their own accord, shifting back to spear himself further onto Richie’s long, incredible fingers, chasing the sparks of bliss they elicit with every plunge. Richie wraps his arm around Eddie’s waist, teeth catching the lobe of his ear as he slowly but surely works Eddie into a state of incoherency. “Does it feel good, angel? You gonna come?” he asks, rough and wrecked. “I wanna see you come on my fingers. Can you do that, gorgeous?” 

Helplessly drowning in the syrup of Richie’s words, sickly sweet as molasses guzzled straight from the tin, Eddie comes, lets the pleasure jolt through him as Richie squeezes tight round his waist. It’s not until after, when Richie is sluicing the wetness from Eddie’s softening dick with his fingers that he realises he hadn’t needed to be touched there at all. He’d come just from Richie’s curled fingers reaching into him; the thought is a little scary, makes him shiver. He falls back against Richie’s chest, spent. 

“We should probably actually shower now,” Richie mumbles into Eddie’s throat, sounding very pleased with himself - for good reason. 

Eddie lets himself be led, by the wrist, beneath the spray. It’s perfectly warm still, though in Eddie’s house the hot water would have run out long ago. Richie lathers something that smells of mint and lime into his hair, something that smells like Richie’s hair. He closes his eyes as Richie’s fingers work it into his scalp, and when the hot water rinses the suds all down his body he feels the prick of arousal again, bubbling up with the delicious thought that even when dry, he’ll smell Richie’s scent all over him. Eddie returns the favour of course, spreading goop from the various expensively branded bottles Richie seems to just have lying around all over his body, making him bend down so he can massage it into his hair. They make out at regular intervals, eyes and lips and tongues catching on one another’s naked bodies, unable to resist the urges of their rampant hormones. Eddie, particularly, cannot seem to stop touching Richie everywhere, threading fingers through his pubic hair, dragging his teeth over his collarbone, licking the nub of an erect nipple. 

Richie is very good about it all, letting Eddie explore freely, a gentle hand held to the back of his skull, whimpering and gasping and whispering Eddie’s name like a spell. Eventually, after the longest shower Eddie has ever had, they switch off the water and find towels, blushing and giddy with the lack of oxygen and the heat and the orgasms. Richie wraps Eddie in a towel with his arms tucked inside, so he’s a walking burrito, which he finds absolutely hilarious despite Eddie’s protests. They spill back out into Richie’s room along with a huge cloud of steam, then make their way over to collapse back onto Richie’s bed, giddy with the intensity of all that just happened. Eddie lies on his back, Richie literally laid out on top of him, his chin on Eddie’s chest, grinning lazily while Eddie pets his damp mop of hair. 

“You want me to make you breakfast?” Richie asks after a brief pause in their dumb conversation. “I can make pancakes again. Or something else. What’s your favourite?”

“Mmm,” Eddie says, rather unhelpfully, because his mind is on other things. 

Richie’s towel is askew, revealing a chunk of long leg and the swell of his left buttock. He can feel Richie is still half-hard through the towel too, has been feeling it for a few minutes now, and it’s serving to shut down a large portion of his functioning brain. 

Richie chuckles, raising up onto his elbows to look down into Eddie’s face. “Don’t know how to make ‘mmm’, sorry. Pancakes it is.” 

He makes to get up, so Eddie winds an arm around his neck and pulls him back down into a kiss that neither of them resurface from for another five minutes. Laughing, Richie manages to free himself enough to speak again, which he does against Eddie’s lips, the words vibrating between them. 

“You’re way too kissable,” he complains. “It’s a huge problem.”

“I’ll work on that,” Eddie replies. 

“Unhand me, temptress,” Richie says then in a Knightly Voice, gently prising Eddie’s arm from his shoulders, “and I shall cook us both a feast.”

Eddie bites his lip, which makes Richie’s gaze fall to his mouth, faltering in his movements. “Or...” Eddie says, already blushing. He can feel his own stirred desires churning up into a further frenzy, insatiable as he becomes when faced with this man, naked atop him, so obviously wanting him too. He swallows hard, and Richie raises an eyebrow. “Or you could stay here,” Eddie suggests, cheeks hot, “and fuck me again.”

Richie’s whole body tenses, just for a few seconds. His head tips forwards, hiding his expression, which sends Eddie into an immediate spiral of regret. He places his hands either side of Richie’s head, pulling him up by the jaw to look in his eyes, maybe apologise, suggest they forget he ever said it and go and stuff themselves with pancakes. But Richie’s eyes are tortured, feral with want, so Eddie stays quiet, holding his breath. His heart skips a beat. 

“You’re going to kill me, Eddie Kaspbrak.” 

“Is that a yes?”

Richie nods fervently, desperately, then surges up to kiss him. “Just think of me as a giant flashing green light,” Richie says against his lips. 

“I'd rather think of you as a hot guy who wants to fuck me,” Eddie whispers back, breathless with anticipation suddenly. His towel is slipping off now that Richie’s moving around on top of him again, so he feels the glorious slide of their erections mere moments later, and the sensation has him winding fingers into Richie’s damp hair. “You can go hard, if you want. You don’t have to be gentle-”

Richie makes an agonised noise, then places his hand over Eddie’s mouth. “You’ve got a hell of a mouth on you, angel, _fuck_.” His pupils swallow Eddie whole. “I need you to save it till I’m, like, deep in the jungle, kay?” 

“In the _what_ -!” Eddie cries, muffled by Richie’s palm. 

“Shh, Eds, I’m literally about to convulse from how hard the universe is loving me this morning, I have not a shitting clue what I’m saying.” He removes his hand from Eddie’s mouth and rises up onto his elbows, winking. “Now prepare to be ravished.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches. “Get on with it, already.” 

“Fuck. Okay.” He looks genuinely nervous as he army crawls across the bed towards his nightstand, where he pulls open a drawer and retrieves a condom, along with a tiny bottle of lube. Eddie takes the opportunity to pinch him on the butt, which makes Richie yelp in a genuinely hilarious way, so Eddie is literally clutching his stomach with laughter when Richie falls back onto him, condom on, indignant. “Will you quit laughing at me?” he asks, also laughing. “I’m trying to be sexy over here.” 

“Can’t help it,” Eddie wheezes, practically crying. “That was the funniest sound that’s ever come out of your mouth.”

“As a future stand-up comedian, that cuts me deep,” Richie says, and Eddie hits him lightly in the arm.

“Richie,” he whines, pawing at him, one leg winding around his to pull him closer, “hurry up.” 

“God. Fuck. You want it bad, baby?” 

The laughter has drained from Richie’s expression, leaving a sort of pained lust in its wake. His eyes drag over Eddie’s naked body. With one hand, he spreads Eddie’s legs apart, then closes a fist around his erection, jerking loosely, making Eddie sigh. 

“Yes,” Eddie replies, lashes fluttering from the flickering pulses of pleasure each twist of Richie’s wrist are sending through him. “Please, c’mon. Fuck me. I know you want to.”

“Oh, I want to,” Richie agrees, leaning over him, settling himself between Eddie’s legs again, kneeling there like a patient puppy while he surveys the body before him. One of his hands trails along Eddie’s upper thigh. “I want to fuck you so bad, Eds. It's pretty much all I think about, actually.”

“Then c’mon,” Eddie begs, slowly losing his will to live at this point. Again, Richie hesitates, prolonging the moment, so Eddie groans in frustration and sits up, unable to bear a second more of waiting. He climbs swiftly into Richie’s lap, arms locking around his neck, and lets Richie’s dick slide between the crease of his ass cheeks. “Here,” he whispers into Richie’s parted mouth, “I’ll make it easier. Now all you gotta do is sit there-”

“Eddie, let me get more lube first, I don't want it to hurt you-” Richie croaks out, broken, fingers digging into his waist, but Eddie shushes him. He's still loose and slick from the shower, he can tell, and besides, he has no patience left in his body.

He reaches down to take ahold of Richie’s dick, the rubbery condom strange and slippery against his fingers, then guides it into place. It’s heavenly, feeling the press of him there again, makes Eddie’s eyes flutter, a gasp escape his throat. He sinks down a little, experimenting, and Richie makes a choked noise, cheek flush against Eddie’s, lips dragging along his jaw. 

“You feel so incredible,” Richie murmurs, like it’s unfair, like he’s trying to make sense of it. “Go slow, baby. Please, I can’t-”

“Shh,” Eddie says again, but does take some pity on him, pressing his body down in small increments, listening once more to the sounds Richie is making so he knows when to take a pause. “Fuck,” he mutters as the protrusion stretches his internal muscles, as his body adjusts to make room, “fuck, _Richie_.”

“S’okay,” Richie says, shaky hands smoothing up Eddie’s sides, “I’ve got you.” 

It’s such a sweet sentiment that Eddie whimpers, finding Richie’s lips with his own. He sinks himself deeper, wanting to join their bodies as far as possible, to fit Richie inside of him like a key in a lock. Richie clutches at him, his fingers bruisingly tight to Eddie’s skin.

“Eddie,” he breathes, fractured, but seems to lose his voice after that. 

So, Eddie begins to move, ignoring the burn, the screech of his small body protesting the invasion, and focuses on the drag of Richie inside of him as he lifts himself up, then drops back down. He moves in small increments at first, and then getting careless with it, drunk on the feeling. He knows he’s raking his nails over Richie’s shoulders, that it’s probably too hard, breaking the skin, but he can’t stop. 

“Rich,” he groans, when his thighs are quaking with the effort of keeping a rhythm, “Rich, will you do it like you did before?” 

“Huh?” Richie asks, dazed, hands on Eddie’s hips to still him. “What? I’ll do whatever you want, Eds, just tell me-”

“Get on top of me,” Eddie pleads, “fuck me the way you’ve been dreaming of.” 

“Not a problem,” Richie replies, then winds a hand around Eddie’s waist to lay him backwards, gentle and careful, like he’s handling a doll. “Pull your legs back for me, angel. That’s it. God, you are so fucking hot.” 

Absurdly, Eddie blushes, a pink splotchy mess all over his chest and neck, but Richie only finds his hand, places a kiss to his wrist, then pushes back into him in one devastating thrust. Eddie moans loud, caught off guard by the suddenness, and claws at Richie to bring him closer. Just as before, Richie finds his groove with ease, practiced and slick about it in the way Eddie hadn’t been moments ago. He hits Eddie’s g-spot right off, and doesn’t miss it on the second, third, fourth stroke, or at all after that. He pins Eddie’s hands by his head, kisses him deeply, not allowing much room to draw breath while his hips work, thrusting hard and fast, until Eddie is a quivering, unspooled thread beneath him. 

They’re so pressed together that Richie’s stomach brushes over Eddie’s dick when he moves, and this friction, along with everything else, is what draws Eddie over the edge. He falls into his high with a sob, head turning to one side as Richie sucks a bruise into his throat. Richie doesn’t falter, his breaths ragged and damp against Eddie’s neck, and then he too tumbles over the precipice, saying Eddie’s name in a way that sounds like a curse, or a prayer. Eventually, they come back to themselves, Richie’s grip loosening on Eddie’s wrists, Eddie’s legs falling apart to lay splayed on the bed. Richie pushes himself up, easing out of Eddie and rolling off him with an apologetic wince. They don’t speak for a while, too dazed to do more than lie side by side, getting their breathing under control, hands loosely grasped. 

“I…” Eddie starts to say, but loses track of his sentence immediately. 

Richie rolls onto his side. A sheen of sweat is visible on his forehead. Eddie has the bizarre urge to lick it, to taste. 

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in, like, a really long time,” Richie almost whispers, not a hint of his usual playfulness to be found. He lifts their joined hands and kisses along Eddie’s knuckles, soft and sweet. Eddie’s heart throbs.

“I didn’t have good things happen to me,” he replies honestly, “until I met you.” 

Richie leans in, kisses him properly. There’s a weight to it that makes Eddie squeeze his eyes shut. Their hands are trapped between them, still. 

“We may have to shower again,” Richie murmurs, breaking the brief, near-unbearably raw moment. Eddie is sort of glad. It’s unusual for Richie to go even a minute without a joke or a tease. “Which is completely your fault.”

“Oh, I’m to blame?” 

Richie pulls back, nods seriously. “You seduced me again.”

“I could say the same to you,” Eddie counters. “Lying on top of me all naked and wet with your towel hanging off and your boner digging into my thigh. Was I supposed to be concentrating on your mediocre pancake-making skills?” 

Richie draws back, affronted. “Mediocre?!” 

Eddie holds his ground, despite the lie. The pancake Richie had made him at Bev’s had been delicious, actually. But he can’t let Richie think he’s good at _everything_ , for God’s sake. The man would never shut up. 

“I’m willing to let you take another shot at impressing me.” 

“You’re on, short stack,” Richie says, jabbing a finger at him. “I’m gonna make you the best damn pancakes you’ve ever tasted.” He pauses, looking down at their naked bodies, covered in various fluids. “After a second shower.”

“Kiss me first,” Eddie demands, smiling much too wide. 

Richie sighs dramatically, flopping back down to shuffle closer. “If I must.” 


	16. Chapter 16

It takes a while for them to get out of Richie’s room, but they have nowhere to be, so they don’t rush it. This kind of un-regimented day plan is an indulgence Eddie is rarely afforded, so he leans into it hard, elated by the prospect of pancakes at noon, of snacking between meals, of staying in his pyjamas indefinitely. Richie finds it all adorable, teasing gently, but doing his utmost to make sure Eddie is suitably relaxed. They play more video games in Richie’s room, eating the berries and chocolate chips left over from their pancake breakfast with their fingers (another indulgence). Eddie sucks raspberry juice off Richie’s fingers, which leads to another long, _long_ makeout session where Richie ends up coming against his thigh, then peeling off Eddie’s pyjama pants and sealing his mouth over Eddie’s cock. 

After this, Eddie makes Richie take him on a tour of the room. He picks up any object that catches his eye and asks for the story behind it, fascinated as he is by every item and how it came to be in Richie’s possession. A stack of polaroids sits on his desk, dusty and unloved, so Eddie snatches them up and flicks through them, then kind of wishes he hadn’t. 

“What's the face scrunch for? You can't tell me I don't photograph well,” Richie says from his desk chair, spinning himself in slow circles. "The camera loves me."

“Mmm,” Eddie replies non-comittally, setting the pile back down with a barely concealed frown. “Is it... different with a girl?”

Richie stops spinning, legs drawing up to cross beneath him on the chair. “Sex?” 

“No, checkers,” Eddie replies with an eye roll. “Obviously sex, yes.”

“Um. ...Yeah, it’s pretty different,” Richie says, not-so-casually reaching for the polaroids. He shuffles through them, realisation dawning when he gets to the third or fourth photo. “Ah. Some o'these are a li’l ‘Girls Gone Wild’, huh?”

“Do you like girls better than guys?”

“No,” Richie says carefully. “I like ‘em both. In different ways.”

Eddie fidgets, leaning against the desk. Something about the whole subject is making him squirmy and disgruntled, but he can’t resist pressing for more information. Like picking at a scab behind his bandaid, despite his mom telling him he should leave it to heal. 

“What’s different about liking girls?” 

Richie makes a face like he knows this is a bad topic to broach. “Err… we don’t have to get into that, Eds, it’s not important-”

“Please,” Eddie says, the urge to know suddenly searing through his veins like molten metal.

Richie instantly melts, as Eddie knew he would. “Um. Well, girls are easier to flirt with, I guess. You can be surer about the response you’ll get. They’re easier to read, ‘cause if they like you, they’ll do the classic things. Touch your arm or ask for your jacket or whatever.” 

“You gave me your jacket,” Eddie points out. “Shirt. Whatever. I didn’t ask for it.”

Richie’s mouth twitches. “Exactly. You’d never ask. Too proud. Too stubborn. I love that.” 

“Hmm,” Eddie responds, not convinced. “What else?”

Richie licks his lips, blushing faintly. “Girls have a lot of, um, life shit to deal with? Thanks to the beloved patriarchy and all that. Underneath the red lips and hair tosses they’re saturated with all these teeny tiny insecurities. About their bodies, or whether they wear the right clothes, or if they sleep around too much. All this crap that they have to think about, ‘cause girls have to walk this fine line between bitch and slut and prude. Such bullshit.”

Eddie considers this, arms folded, trying to work out Richie’s point. “So, what, that makes them more difficult to deal with than guys?”

Richie’s eyebrows raise. “No, man. Not what I mean. It’s just something you gotta think about with a woman, y’know? You have to know that if you get involved, you’re adding to the mess of worry she’s already got going on. If she’s looking for a guy to lean on and you don’t commit to her, then you’re an asshole in her eyes. For good reason, of course. But still something to think about before you dive in.”

“Guys worry about stuff too,” Eddie says, feeling defensive. 

“Of course,” Richie agrees, smiling. “You worry enough for the whole of our gender, prob’ly.”

“And what about… the sex?” Eddie persists, ignoring Richie’s valiant attempt to divert the conversation with a tease. “How is it different with girls?” 

“It’s simpler,” Richie admits. “Mostly. Which can leave room for a lot of playfulness. Not a lot of prep required.” He pauses, thoughtfully. “If they have long hair it can get in the way a lot.”

“Oh,” Eddie replies quietly. 

He wishes he hadn’t asked. He knew he would regret asking. Suddenly, Richie is perching on the desk beside him, hands tucked beneath his own thighs, just sitting there - a comforting presence in his black boxer briefs and nothing else. 

“I don’t want simple,” Richie tells him softly. From the timbre of his voice, Eddie knows he’s being brutally honest. “I don’t want girls gone wild. I don’t want guys gone wild. You’re it for me now, Eds,” he says, nudging their shoulders like it’s a joke, but Eddie can still hear the rawness. “You’ve ruined me.” 

“That just cannot be true,” Eddie says, shoving his shoulder into Richie’s. “I’m… boring. There’s no way I could be enough. Not if that's what you're into.” 

He flaps his hands towards the polaroids, where the girls in skimpy bikinis grin sloppily into the camera, draped over Richie laid on beach towels and on the decks of boats. In Turtle Cove, even, in their tiny themed outfits, kissing his cheeks and tucked beneath his arm. They’re his friends, Eddie knows, but the way they touch him suggests the boundaries have sometimes been blurred.

“Eddie…” Richie blows out a long breath, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve never felt anything like how it feels. With you.”

Something hot and sparkly bursts in Eddie’s stomach. He squashes it down before it can explode into something unmanageable. He turns to look at Richie, catching his own bewildered expression in the lenses of his glasses. “So, you meant that?” he whispers. “At Bev's? When you said it wasn’t always like this?”

“Oh, babe,” Richie sighs. He winds an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him in. “I didn’t know it _could_ be like this. Not until you poured rum and coke over Madison McCarthy just so I’d grope you instead.” 

Eddie shoves at his chest, feebly, which does nothing. Richie presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Can we take some polaroid pictures together?” he asks, shyly. 

Richie laughs. “Naked?” 

“You can have one naked picture. _One_. The rest have to be respectable enough for my mom to see.” 

“You’re showing your mom polaroids of us now?”

“Clothed ones! I just wanna put them up in my room. And she snoops in my room.”

“Ah,” Richie says, nodding sagely. “Very well. I’ll brush up for your mommy as best I can.” 

“I hate you.”

“I-” Richie cuts himself off, and Eddie tilts his face up, curious. “Are we done with all the sappy stuff now? ‘Cause I kinda wanna take you into town for one o’these Stanley Special milkshakes you’ve been waxing on about.”

*

Eddie orders he and Richie a vegan milkshake from the place in town, which they eat sat on the bandstand, their legs dangling over the edge. Richie has his hand on top of Eddie’s, between them, and it’s making Eddie feel like a flare gun about to go off. Because people are seeing them. And not just strangers walking by, but Richie’s friends, who wave and call out to him as they pass. Richie _never fucking moves his hand_. After a good five minutes of trying not to squirm, Richie turns to Eddie, waving off a couple that he’s been chatting idly to, paper milkshake straw between his lips. 

“Is this freaking you out?” Richie asks, squeezing Eddie’s hand pointedly. 

“No,” Eddie lies. He looks away, concentrating on the delicious artificial strawberry flavour of his shake. “Um, but, you don’t mind people… assuming?” 

Richie's mouth lilts up into a half-leer. “Assuming that I’m all up in your sexy red shorts?” 

Eddie sends him a brief glower. “People might think we’re more than hooking up, if they see us holding hands.” 

“ _More_ than hooking up?” Richie repeats, amused. “Married? Father and son? Mentally challenged hospital patient and carer?” 

Eddie pulls his hand away. “If you’re gonna be a dick about it.”

“Noo, I’m sorry,” Richie pleads, laughing as he leans into Eddie’s space, grabbing for his hand again. “You’re just so sweet. You think I’m worried that people might think we’re together-together, but for me that’s a helluva score. You’re _uber_ hot, Eds. I’m known around Derry as the wacky, annoying show off with the poor fashion taste and corkscrew curls. You holding my hand is giving me, like, ten thousand cool points.” 

“People in Derry know me as the unfriendly germphobic freak who gets stuffed into a lot of lockers,” Eddie tells him with a raised eyebrow, but lets Richie take back his hand, which he does gratefully, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the knuckles. “I’m not gonna boost you up the status quo, if that’s what you’re looking for here. I’m a loser.”

“Then we’ll both be losers,” Richie tells him with a smitten smile, then tugs Eddie towards him, eyes questioning once their faces are close. Eddie nods, small and shy, and Richie reads it quite rightly as a yes, then presses their lips together. It’s not as feverish as their usual kisses, more of a chaste, public-friendly peck, but Eddie still blushes all the way down to his toes. When Richie pulls away, he’s grinning madly wide. “Fifty thousand cool points right there.”

“Loser points,” Eddie corrects.

“Well, if I'm gonna commit, might as well go for gold,” Richie says, leaning in again. He tastes of vanilla milkshake. 

Just then, a voice calls out nearby, startling them apart. “Hey, Rich, who’s your friend?” 

Eddie’s gaze lands on a young woman in running clothes with a high ponytail and glowing, golden skin. She’s accompanied by a shorter, nervous looking girl in a sundress. The ponytail girl is standing with her arms folded, her long, tanned leg stuck out to one side beneath her tiny shorts. 

Richie lifts his hand in a wave, sheepish. “Hey, Vanessa.” 

“Oh, _Vanessa_ , is it now?” she asks, exchanging a look with the other girl. “Last time I saw you it was ‘babydoll’, I think. Or maybe ‘sweetpea’.”

Eddie feels his body tense, and shifts slightly away from Richie so he won’t feel it too. Unfortunately this has the effect of making it seem as if he’s shuffling abruptly away from Richie because of the things this girl is saying. Richie shoots him a guilty look. 

“Aren’t you gonna introduce me?” Vanessa asks, gesturing to Eddie. 

“Sure,” Richie says, teeth gritted, “Nessa, this is Eddie.”

“Hi,” she says, waggling her fingers. “Eddie, are you aware that the guy you're kissing is a jackass with a God complex who thinks he can treat girls any way he wants?” 

Eddie, in the middle of a return wave, lowers his hand, startled. “Err-”

“Good thing Eds isn’t a girl then, I guess,” Richie replies, which was - even Eddie knows - just a terrible joke to make. 

Vanessa, incensed, begins marching towards them, the other girl trotting behind her in alarm.

"Oops, there's our ride!" Richie cries, then jumps down from the bandstand, turning to lift Eddie carefully after him, and then locks their hands together and runs, pulling Eddie after him.

Eddie, breathless and high on adrenaline, matches Richie step for step even though they’re hurtling across the grass, and the sound of Vanessa - in much better exercise attire than either of them - is loud and close. They don’t stop, despite Vanessa's constant stream of heavy abuse, until they’re back at Richie’s car, parked on the street by the milkshake place. They duck in quickly, but find that somewhere along the sprint Vanessa had given up, and is nowhere to be seen. 

“Fuck,” Richie says, panting, hands on the wheel, “that was dumb.”

“Angering another of your jilted women,” Eddie says, also breathless, “yeah. That was pretty dumb. Can we stop doing that?” 

Richie shoots him a grin that Eddie has half a mind to smack him for. “I swear it’s bad luck that you’re always around for the anger and the abuse,” he says, and Eddie doesn’t buy a word. “It’s just jealousy, anyway. I’ve told the whole of Derry that I’m crazy about you.” 

He says it casually, one arm on the back of Eddie’s seat as he eases the car out of its space. Eddie studies his profile, a little stunned, trying to think of what to say. 

“You think those girls are mad at you because you’re with me instead of them?” 

Richie laughs, glancing at him, a little pink in the face. “I know it sounds conceited, but I did kinda accidentally string some people along here and there before you-”

“You don’t have to keep making it sound like it’s so different with me,” Eddie interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m new to this stuff, but I’m not an idiot. We’re just having fun, I know that.”

A brief, wounded expression flits over Richie’s face, moulding it briefly into a terrible kind of pity that has Eddie feeling suddenly nauseous. But then it’s gone, and Richie’s easy smile is back, his eyes fixed on the road as he takes them slowly down Derry highstreet. 

“You’re not gonna cuss me out someday in the middle of the square like my peachy pal Ness?” 

Eddie snorts derisively, but in his chest something pangs hard. He’d known it, of course, had even just told Richie how fine it all is, but it still hurts to hear Richie confirm that this is just a summer fling. That it means nothing more than the rest of his many hookups with girls (and guys?) around town. Just as Richie had said, one day Eddie will be just like Vanessa, catching sight of him in in the park or in town, a different person on his arm that will have captured his fleeting attention span. And hey, Eddie is known for his hot head. He can't be certain of course that seeing Richie in the future with someone else, kissing them and holding their hand and smiling suggestively at them, would trigger an explosion of fury in him the way it had in Vanessa and Madison, and probably a dozen others. But given that right now imagining such a thing has Eddie gritting his teeth so hard he can hear the grind, it seems likely.

He sighs, rolling his window down. Richie looks over, worriedly, and finds his hand. “Hey, I’m only kidding, gorgeous.” 

Eddie shoots him a weak smile. “Yeah. Where are you taking me then, stud?” 

*

Richie drives them to the quarry, which Eddie has been to before as a child; all he remembers of the experience was refusing to go in the water after his mom told him there were leeches in there. When he explains this to Richie, who is already peeling off his t-shirt for swimming, he laughs so loud a burst of starlings flutter from the trees overhead. 

“Eds, there are no leeches,” he says, “I come here at least once a week. I’ve never been leeched. Promise.” 

He holds out a hand, all shirtless and pretty with the dappled light falling through the slits in the blanketing leaves above, scattering across his shoulders and chest. They’re up high, having come through the woods to the edge of a tall rock face. Richie has a towel under his arm, taken from the messy trunk of his car, which does suggest some truth to his claims that he comes to swim here a lot. Eddie is still dubious, but takes Richie’s hand anyway, and allows himself to be led into the patch of sunlight near the edge of the cliff, where Richie spreads out the towel. 

“Take a seat,” Richie says, bowing, so Eddie does, perching cross-legged at the edge of the towel, craning his neck to look over the cliff to the pool of baby blue water below. “Want me to throw you in?” 

“No!” Eddie exclaims in horror, and Richie laughs, so Eddie swats him. “Asshole.” 

Richie takes a seat beside him, folding up all of his limbs to sit in a seemingly impossible bunched position, very close. It’s a small towel. 

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle. “You’ve gone all quiet on me. Sorry I yeeted outta the park like that. Abandoned our milkshakes so callously. I’ll buy you another one soon.” 

“S’ok,” Eddie says, playing with the corner of the towel. It’s a Sponge Bob Square Pants towel, because of course it is. “That girl seemed hell bent on smacking you for being a prick. Probably wise to abandon our vegan treats.” 

“Oh for sure.” Richie shifts awkwardly, rearranging the bunch of his legs and arms. “I’m sorry you have to hear all that. About my past misdeeds. I guess it’s unavoidable, but I wanted to keep all that out of your sight until…”

The trail off is intriguing. Eddie has no idea what the end of that sentence could be. “I don’t care that much. Just… if that’s me one day, standing in front of you being all crazy and jealous, don’t run away, okay? I promise I won’t smack you. Well. I'll _try_ to restrain myself, at least.”

Richie stares at him like he’s sprouted a third ear. “Are you nuts? The only one here who’s in danger of needing to sprint far away from the other is you, angel. _I’m_ the Vanessa in this situation, not the other way around.” 

Eddie can’t help it, he rolls his eyes. “Will you shut up with that? It’s getting old. I don’t need to be sweet-talked anymore. All this shit about being totally head over heels for me and telling everyone how bad you’ve got it.” Stiff with annoyance, Eddie begins unlacing his shoes and placing them to the side; his feet are too hot. The socks go next, bunched into each shoe to keep them from getting swept over the edge in a gust of wind and lost. He'd have to trudge back to the car with just his shoes, and they'd rub his heel, and he'd get blisters, and his mom would force him to wear those old lady velcro slippers for a week. “I know you’re good at this, Rich,” he continues, stretching out his bare toes, “I know you know how to play the dating game really, really well, but you’ve already had me. You’ve won. So relax. Let’s just ride this out until you’re bored and you find someone better.”

The last bit comes out a bit harsher than he intended. He winces as the words slip out, but pretends it’s just the sun in his eyes. Richie seems to be collecting his thoughts, judging by how wildly his pupils dart around Eddie’s face, mouth parted. 

Instead of the defensive response Eddie expects however, Richie tackles him backwards, slotting their hands together to prevent Eddie from using them. Richie leans over him, still dumbfounded, and kisses Eddie hard on the mouth. They’re alone up here, the quarry looking as though it hasn’t seen human life in quite some time, so Richie doesn’t hold back. He bites Eddie’s lips until Eddie gasps out loud, then takes the opportunity to lick into Eddie’s mouth, slow and deliberate, not giving him room to breathe. 

The suddenness of it all has Eddie's dick swelling to arousal twice as fast as usual, but he can feel that Richie is in the same way. He doesn’t exactly understand which aspect of their frank, rather brutal conversation had ignited this irrepressible lust in Richie, but he won’t complain. Richie’s wearing shorts, but they’re unbuttoned and unzipped because he’d been about to rip them off and dive in the water in his underwear, presumably. Eddie slips his hand into them now, cupping Richie’s growing erection and squeezing, tugging until Richie groans into his mouth. 

“Let me take these off, c’mon,” Richie urges, leaning back to sweep hair out of his face, then set to work determinedly pulling Eddie’s belt from its loops, then inching his shorts down. “You’re delusional,” he says, inexplicably, once Eddie’s underwear is drawn off too, leaving him exposed to the fresh air from the waist down. 

Eddie can’t help checking around the immediate vicinity, but there’s not a hint of life anywhere apart from them. What Richie had said sinks in belatedly, distracted as he is by his own paranoia of being discovered and promptly arrested for public indecency. It was Richie's tone that had thrown him. Soft and saccharine tone - like a sweet nothing. 

As soon as he realises he's been insulted, Eddie drives his heel into Richie’s hip. “Delusional?” 

Richie leans down to trail a line of hot, sloppy kisses over his front. He seals a mouth over Eddie’s left nipple, the tip of his tongue circling the hardening nub. “Mmhmm.”

Eddie kicks him again, a little harder. “I’m not delusional!” 

“Yeah, you are,” Richie says firmly, sitting up and catching Eddie’s foot before he can be kicked again. 

Mortifyingly, he brings Eddie’s heel to his mouth and pushes his lips there, making him yelp. He tries to flail the foot away, but Richie’s grip is steady, and next he slips the big toe into his mouth, sucking quickly with a wet ‘pop’. It’s disgusting. Horrifyingly disgusting, actually, because feet are gross and despite Eddie’s careful hygiene routine, his are no exception. But there’s something extremely titillating about the way Richie’s sparkling eyes hold his as he traces a tongue over the arch, like he knows Eddie will squirm, but knows as well, that he’ll kind of like it. 

Eddie’s breathing grows ragged, just watching him. “Wh-why?”

Richie’s mouth moves up Eddie’s heel, pressing to his ankle, then dragging over his calf. He works up slowly, making sure not to miss a step, spending a good thirty seconds suckling the back of Eddie’s knee - a spot Eddie had no idea could be considered erogenous - before nipping repeatedly at the soft flesh of his inner thighs. Eddie is trembling by the time he pulls back to answer the question. 

“It’s delusional of you to think I could ever get bored of you,” he says, right up close to Eddie’s twitching erection, his breath ghosting over the tip. Eddie has to fight to stay still, to resist canting his hips up and trying to slip his cock into that warm, wet mouth. He swallows, blushing hard at the very thought of such boldness, and Richie sees right through him, grinning. “You wanna fuck my mouth, Eds?”

“Y-yes,” he whispers, shyly. “Only if you were okay with it-” 

Richie groans, head shaking. “See what I mean? Delusional. Of course I’m fucking okay with it. Look at you. Fuck. _Look at you_. I will happily gift my mouth for you to use forever as you please.” 

Eddie is so hot, from the sun beating down, from the ferocity of such intense affection, and from his own muddle of shame and arousal. He should have brought sun screen. The sun is dipping, so perhaps he won’t burn from that, but he might sizzle under the heat of Richie’s stare. 

“Forever is a long time,” Eddie squeaks, but Richie just parts his lips, a silent invitation, so Eddie shuts up and does what he longs to do. 

He tilts his hips forwards, already taut with anticipation of the feeling, and Richie meets him halfway. His mouth is slack and welcoming, a damp pocket of warmth and softness; Eddie whimpers right away, the very second he slips inside. Richie raises his eyebrows, signalling for him to keep going, so Eddie shuts of his everflowing tap of embarrassment for a moment, and starts thrusting gently into Richie’s mouth. Richie has positioned himself right over Eddie’s pelvis, so he doesn’t need to move his hips very much at all. Richie keeps his mouth loose, lips a tight circle, not so much as bothering to slurp up any of the saliva that escapes, making everything slick and wonderful. 

It doesn’t take long for the cresting wave of pleasure building in Eddie’s gut to peak, threatening to drown him. He lets himself fall all the way back against the towel, his elbows giving out, and cants his hips three times more. Then, like a tsunami, the bliss charges over him, washing out every speckle of residual worry or jealousy or bitterness that he only afterwards realises were probably making him a snippy bitch for the past half an hour. The sun pours across him, pooling in the pores left behind by the waning wash of pleasure, leaving a warm, sated feeling to settle over him. 

Richie pulls off, wiping his chin with his forearm, a wry smile on his face. “I will never be bored of you,” he vows, flopping down beside Eddie happily. “Never. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, Kaspbrak.” 

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Eddie wheezes, feeling quite spun out. Dizzy.

Richie makes a noise of frustration, and then he’s on top of Eddie again, hands braced either side of Eddie’s head, a frown creasing his forehead. His glasses have slipped to teeter dangerously on the tip of his nose. 

“Eds, I don’t know how to impress this upon you,” he says, so het up that Eddie actually listens instead of making a snarky remark. “I don’t chat this kind of shit with anyone. I don’t willingly spend time with random people I barely like. I’ve never invited anyone to stay at my house. Not since I was, like, eleven for an emotionally scarring slumber party or two. But I want you there, Eds. I never want you to leave. If I could be around you all the time, I’d do that. Your own personal lapdog. I’m not joking around here, babe. This isn’t an act I’m putting on to get in your pants. I like you. I really, hellishly, humiliatingly like you. I’m sure Vanessa would say it’s karma, that the universe is paying me back for all the times I’ve coerced girls into falling for me just so I can get a li'l action, and turning me into a desperate, whiny little puppy traipsing around after you. She may even be right. But no matter what cosmic event sent you soaring into my orbit, the fact remains, unfortunately for you, that I’ve never _ever_ felt like this for anyone except you. I've never thought about anyone so much, or wondered whether they're thinking about me too, or watched for them in case they appear on the Turtle Cove horizon, or prodded and teased them just in the hopes of getting bitched at. And it goes without saying I'm sure but I have _never_ jerked off this much about anyone, my God. My dick appears to me in visions, begging for mercy." He pauses, re-scanning this weird joke in his mind. If it is a joke. Eddie can't be sure. "Err," Richie continues, "as I'm sure is evident from my rambling, this whole thing is kinda driving me insane. So the fact that you don’t _believe_ me is actually a little insulting.”

He rolls off of Eddie then, flopping onto his back to stare at the sky. Eddie props himself onto one side to glare at him. “Insulting?!” 

Richie slides his gaze to Eddie’s, warily. “Well… a little. I’m clearly a shit actor if you’re seeing all my pining as an act of trickery to lure you into bed.”

The wild absurdity of this whole conversation thrums through Eddie’s bones, still alight from the orgasm not five minutes earlier. “I don’t get what you want from me,” he confesses, growing more and more bewildered by the second. “I… I like you a lot. A _lot_ ,” he says, the truth of it bubbling up like magma creeping up towards the eruption site. Is this how spontaneous combustion happens? From being burnt up with embarrassment? “But we… we’re already… aren’t you happy now? You wanted to fuck me, you told pretty much all of our friends, and the rest of the town apparently, and now you have. What else… why are you making out like I’m holding out on you somehow?” 

“Because you seem to think it’s only a matter of time before I ditch you and move on to some other unfortunate person,” Richie says, and yeah, he’s not wrong. But given his track record, what else is Eddie supposed to think? “Which would mean that you think all of this…” he gestures, flappily, between them, “...all the stuff we’ve done, all the time we’ve spent together, is just… unimportant.”

“It’s not unimportant,” Eddie says, shocked. He tentatively reaches out a hand and Richie snatches it greedily, holding it to his bare chest. “I’ve had the best time of my whole life with you, Richie.”

Richie tilts his face to look at him for a drawn out moment, then he sighs. His whole body softens, not just his face. Like he’s melting into the stone. “I’m being a dick,” he surmises. Eddie doesn’t want to outright agree, but this conversation _is_ souring the pleasantness of the amazing blowjob he just received. “I’m sorry, angel.” 

He cups Eddie’s face with his free hand. “It’s… okay," Eddie replies, dubiously.

“You drive me so fucking nuts,” Richie says, not for the first time. He swallows, eyes round and nervous, flicking over Eddie’s face. “Would you promise me that you won’t be mean to me if I ask you a probably dumb question?”

“That… seems loaded.”

“Hmm, yeah.” Richie shifts his shoulders, chewing his lip. “Okay, well, I’m gonna ask, but let me just say, for the record, that I am aware the question is probably ill-advised, and likely to be met with a slap-”

“Richie,” Eddie says, heart suddenly pounding, “what is it?”

Another swallow. A squeeze of his hand. “Would you… would you ever wanna be with me? ...Properly?”

Eddie feels his breath catch. His eyes widen, and he sees the fearful response flash over Richie’s face at the sight. 

“I told you!” he shrieks. “I told you it was dumb-”

Eddie slams a hand over Richie’s mouth, heart a skittering drum. “Shut up. What. What do you mean? Exactly. Spell it out."

Richie gestures for Eddie to move his hand. Eddie does, slowly. Richie moistens his lips before he speaks. “Um. You know. Like… be boyfriends. Partners. Lovers? I don’t know. I’m open to the terminology of it all. I’d just be desperately, stupidly happy if I could call you mine. Not that you’re… property… but, um. Wow, I am really screwing this up. Do you want another blowjob? I can totally just rewind back to that and we can forget-”

Eddie rolls half on top of him. Kisses him gently, thoughtfully, while his mind spins like a carousel. _Boyfriend. Richie. Boyfriends. With an ‘s’._

_'...if I could call you mine.'_

Eddie makes a small sobbing noise - mortifying - into Richie’s mouth. When he draws back, Richie understandably looks quite alarmed.

“If I’m delusional, you’re a dumbass,” Eddie tells him crossly. Which…. it’s not the exact way he'd planned to respond. But it does serve to make Richie’s mouth twitch at the corners. “You don’t ask any of the other people you sleep with this, do you?” 

“Does it seem like I practice this a lot? I barely got the words out,” Richie points out. “I was about to have an aneurysm down here for a sec. Lucky you know mouth-to-mouth.” 

He winks, and Eddie swats him, then lets his hand rest on Richie’s chest. His heart is beating wildly fast. “I want to be your boyfriend,” Eddie says quickly, then nods, like that’s the agreement settled. 

Richie’s glasses are slightly askew. Behind them, his eyes are faintly glistening. “Y-yeah?” 

“Oh my God, please don’t cry,” Eddie begs. “Because if you are actually crying, you huge fucking sap, then I will cry as well, and that will be so pathetically awful.”

“Oh, these aren’t tears,” Richie says, sitting up to remove his glasses and rub the wetness away. “These are manly sweat drips from my muscular ducts.”

“Right,” Eddie says, also sitting up. He wraps his arms around his knees, mostly to keep them from shaking. “So…” Richie turns to him, sliding the frames back onto his face. “Are we… do I have a boyfriend now?” 

“Tell me his name, I’ll fuck him up.”

Eddie hits him in the arm. “Richie.”

“Yes, lover?” 

“I get the feeling this relationship is going to be utterly exhausting,” Eddie says, at which point Richie promptly tackles him backwards, once again pinning him to the floor. “For fuck’s- okay, rule one, no wrestling your boyfriend without permission.”

Richie kisses him on the nose, elated. “Am I allowed to take him for a swim?” 

“Ugh,” Eddie says, casting a look over the edge into the water. “Okay. A _small_ dip. But you have to let me get out if I want. And no dunking me under.”

Richie does dunk him under. Several times, actually, but Eddie finds it difficult to blame him because he’s so obviously overexcited. It’s adorable, because he absolutely cannot hide it no matter how hard he tries. It’s ten times more noticeable than usual; his eyes are bright, his grin is etched on, he clutches and kisses and hugs Eddie to him every few seconds. It’s the puppyish behaviour Eddie is sure he’d detest if he weren’t so smitten. Instead, he finds it sweet. How gross. 

Of course, he doesn’t relay this to Richie. Instead, he calls him a sap again, and complains about the tactility, and the dirty water, and the possibility of contracting strep. He swims out of Richie’s reach to be a tease, weaving his small body, which has always been quick and agile in the water, just beyond the stretch of Richie's fingertips, then splashing him when he lunges closer. It’s his own fault, really, that he taunts Richie to breaking point by saying he can’t be caught, and that’s why the first dunking happens. Accidentally. Richie is too worked up to be the usual gentle giant, so drags him under with his arms locked around Eddie’s waist when he finally grabs hold. In turn, Eddie dunks Richie, to make things even. And this starts the dunking war. 

When they finally call a truce (or, rather, Eddie demands a ceasefire on pain of sex with-holdance), they are both clinging to the rocks, gasping and drenched, hair dripping and utterly exhausted. Eddie takes one look at Richie beside him, still revved up and animated, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he takes in Eddie’s shape in the water, and launches himself right into Richie’s chest. Not wearing his glasses, it takes Richie a moment to understand what’s happening, but once he susses out that Eddie’s spindly arms are locked around his neck, and his feet are wedged into his hips, he takes charge, flattening Eddie against the rock, holding them there with one hand. 

It’s something Eddie has never considered the physics of, jerking off another man underwater, and it’s not as easy as he’d hoped in all honesty. But Richie is so worked up that he doesn’t seem to care at all that it’s sloppy and jerky and probably not that great. Strangely, the water seems to remove the lubrication element that is so vital for such things. Eddie kisses him on the neck all the while to make up for it - which helps a lot. As a final treat for a man that has bared his soul without hope of reward, Eddie bites at Richie’s ear, then whispers, “do you want to know a secret?"

"Uh huh," Richie replies, strained.

"That time I called you in the middle of the night," Eddie says, letting his lips flutter teasingly against the shell of his ear, "that was the first time I'd ever come."

A shocked sound catches in Richie's throat. Eddie's hand continues smoothly, steadily, pumping over his dick. "Wh-what?" he chokes out. "With s-someone else y'mean?" 

Eddie shakes his head, trying to draw back and stare Richie in the eye to cement the truth of his confession, but succeeds only in riling himself up seeing the blissed out look on Richie's face. He kisses Richie on the mouth, taking what he wants from it greedily, letting his tongue rove where it wants. Richie moans, hand slipping into Eddie's hair. 

"I tried to do it myself a few times," Eddie murmurs, "and then again after I met you. But it never worked. I knew, though, that your voice would help. It gets me so hot when you flirt with me. When you get all low and deep and guttural." 

"Fuck," Richie gasps, eyes fluttering shut. "Just when I th-think you can't possibly get any hotter to me."

"Yeah," Eddie says with a sigh, "when your voice is just like that."

"I really made you come for the first time ever just by saying nasty shit on the phone?" Richie asks through gritted teeth. "Fuck, that's hot."

"Mmhmm," Eddie affirms. He speeds up his jerking movements a little, and Richie moans louder. "You fixed me too. Now I just have to remember it. Picture you saying something in my ear all quiet. Makes me come so hard."

"Ohhh, fuck, Eds..."

"Or, sometimes, when I’m really worked up, I imagine you fucking me in The Neibolt control room," Eddie confesses, on a roll now. Richie makes an agonised noise, fingers wound tight in Eddie's hair, pulling so hard it springs tears into his eyes. "Bent over the panel, quick and messy and hard because the coaster only lasts a few minutes.”

The result is delightful, and instant. Richie comes so hard that he sinks his teeth into Eddie’s hand, which he brings to his mouth to muffle the scream that rips out of him. Eddie can feel his cock pulsing in the water, still wrapped in his fist, but is lost in the sight of Richie spiralling in front of him, his face scrunched, his groans flat and wordless against Eddie's palm. 

“Holy shit,” he whispers, once the initial wave is over, then drops Eddie's hand to kiss him hard, bruisingly. “Eddie, you’re fucking perfect. Are you really all mine?” 

Eddie nods fervently. “If you want, yes.”

“I want,” Richie affirms, then kisses him again, just as hard, this time with a smile, “I want, I want, I want.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the huge wait for these last chapters. I really appreciate your patience, I hope I've drawn this story to satisfying close! This was originally going to be one huge chapter, but I decided to split it into two. I'll post one today and the next tomorrow (26th). Hope you enjoy my dears, and thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> xxx

On Sunday evening, as the sun settles itself into the pillowy stretch of horizon, Richie drives Eddie back to Bev’s house. He creeps along the deserted roads, the leeching heat of the day giving the town a dozy atmosphere that has Eddie sinking back against the worn fabric of the passenger seat. His hand is loosely held in Richie’s, hanging between their seats. The radio, almost too quiet to be heard, plays a sweet, soft tune plucked out on a guitar, a girl’s voice hovering above the melody. 

“Not a huge fan of her new album,” Richie comments, playing with Eddie’s fingers. With his forearm slung over the wheel, his hair a glossy auburn in the summery evening light, his tinted photosensitive glasses on the bridge of his nose, Richie looks like a French film star. Seeing him, Eddie has to catch his breath before he can process what Richie is saying. “But I kinda like this song. Reminds me of you.” 

Eddie has no idea who is singing, but the simple fact that this pretty, lilting melody could prompt Richie to think of him has him lighting up with a smooth, consuming warmth. He closes his eyes to listen to the words. 

_‘Can I go where you go?_

_Can we always be this close, forever and ever?_

_And ah, take me out, and take me home…_ _’_

“You sap,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling so much it probably looks a little manic to anyone catching sight from the sidewalk. 

_‘And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me_

_And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover’_

“I’d consider it,” Eddie says, eyes still closed because he’s worried if he opens them, Richie will see the glisten.

“Consider what?” 

“This,” Eddie replies, gesturing to the radio, “being our song.” 

Richie goes uncharacteristically quiet then, but he squeezes Eddie’s hand very hard. 

*

When Richie and Eddie pull up, Bev is sitting on a deck chair on her front lawn, smoking defiantly while her opposite neighbour glowers as they water the plants. She grins when she spots them, but respectfully moves her gaze to her phone screen while they say their goodbyes. Richie switches off the engine, turning his long body in his seat to face Eddie properly. 

“What?” Eddie asks, because Richie is staring.

“Just wonderin’ how bad I can embarrass you right now in front of your bestie,” Richie replies, so Eddie smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Ow, jeez. Save it for our next fumble in the sheets.”

“In my experience, sheets are a rare luxury for our fumbles.” 

“That’s just your public sex kink,” Richie says, so Eddie hits him again. 

“The windows are open and Bev has ears like a bat, you asshole!”

Richie laughs, catching Eddie by the wrists and kissing each one, which does admittedly have the intended effect of melting away every speck of his anger. “Man, I’m stupidly lucky to have locked this little firecracker down, huh?”

“Yes,” Eddie snaps, but he’s smiling. “You should show me some respect if you don’t wanna get burned.”

“Can I kiss you? I know Bev’s there, but-”

Eddie leans in to press their lips together before he gets to the end of the sentence. “You talk too much,” he mumbles, then Richie slides his tongue inside. 

When they break apart, Bev calls out something that sounds vaguely mocking, though Eddie can’t hear what over the pounding of blood in his ears. Kissing Richie never gets any less thrilling, which is unexpected, but fantastic. Eddie would have half a mind to pull him into the back seat right now if he weren’t acutely aware of Bev’s beady gaze. 

“Sure you don’t wanna stay another night?” Richie wheedles, eyes doe-wide behind his glasses. 

“You’ve got work in the morning,” Eddie reminds him. “Those kids won’t hurl themselves into the sky.” 

“Yeah, but I could drop you on my way-”

“Rich,” Eddie laughs, one hand cupping his soft cheek, “I’ll come see you soon.”

This perks him up. “Yeah? You’ll come to the park?”

Eddie hesitates, wincing. Too late to backtrack now. “I’ll… come to the park, yes.”

He grins, leaning in to press a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. “You don’t have to, baby. But I’ll look out just in case.” 

“Baby,” Eddie echoes, trying out the word to see if he likes it. It sounds different on Richie’s tongue outside of the bracket of their locked limbs. Dearer. Chewier. More loaded. “Okay. I don’t mind that.”

Richie’s face is alight with happiness when Eddie reaches for the door handle, which is a good way to leave him. “Wait, baby, one more kiss,” he begs, clutching Eddie’s wrist. 

“You can’t use it to manipulate me,” Eddie says gruffly, but lets the door swing wide while he turns to grant Richie’s request. They don’t rush, because despite Bev’s occasional throat clearing, they don’t have anywhere to be apart from away from one another, and that’s going to come all too quickly. 

At length, Richie draws back with a long sigh. “Okay, get away from me before I kidnap you and lock you in my closet.” 

“I’m not going back in any closets, thanks.”

“Nice,” Richie says approvingly, then gives his hand a final squeeze. 

Eddie smiles at him fondly, then gets out of the car. He pulls his bag from the boot, then gives Richie a final wave before he heads across the lawn to Bev. He hears the rev of the engine as he turns his back, and a pulsing ache starts up in his chest. 

“Catch you later, boyfriend!” Richie calls, and Eddie goes rigid, heat flying into his cheeks. 

He swivels round, dropping his bag, ready to throttle him, but he’s already speeding down the road with a final blown kiss. 

“Excuse me, _what_!?” Bev cries, and Eddie closes his eyes in dismay, beginning to prepare himself for a long evening of being thoroughly grilled. 

*

The following morning, Eddie goes back to his own house after receiving a call from his mother that informs him she will be returning in the afternoon. Bev hugs him fiercely, her scrawny arms strangely tight around his shoulders. 

“I know I spent all night teasing you mercilessly, but I’m really happy for you, Eddie,” she murmurs into his ear. When she releases him, her eyes are glistening. “We’re so going to TC to pester your new man soon.” 

“He’d love that honestly,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. She sniffs, and he pushes her, feeling awkward. “Beeeev. Quit it. You’re acting like I’m about to march down the aisle.” 

“It’s just… I don’t remember last time I saw you leave here to go home smiling,” she says, and Eddie thinks about it for a second. She’s probably right. “I’ll stop, I’ll stop. Go on, before Mama Bear gets back to the nest and finds you missing. We all know who’d be first on her warpath.” 

She jabs a thumb at her sternum, and Eddie nods, sighing. “Yep. To her you're the she-Devil, each day tempting me further into sin. Okay, see you later. Thanks for letting me stay. Thank Annie and Fiona for me too.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Suck up.”

Eddie’s cycle home is uneventful, as is his re-entry to his house, except for the fact that the whole time his brain loops thoughts of Richie, and the weekend they just shared together, around and around, like he’s still on that teacup ride, hurtling past the memories too quick to grab hold of any. It gets to the point where Eddie, fearing for his own sanity, forces himself to concentrate on other things. He begins cooking a meal for his mother when she returns, and almost decides to try omelettes before remembering his mother’s fierce aversion to French cuisine. Besides, even contemplating the recipe is just another avenue to remembering Richie, and how skilfully he’d prepared them, and how gorgeous he’d looked in his kitchen, glasses misted by steam, throwing the word ‘gorgeous’ at Eddie like he owned it. 

Instead, he cooks Borscht from his mother’s endless supply of beetroot that she buys in bulk from the farmer down the road. For a while, it works as a distraction, but then the familiar process of dicing and boiling grows boring, and his mind wanders back to the clearing by the quarry, when Richie had been dripping wet and tanned, being so bright and loud that the trees echoed his laughter. When life had not been boring at all. Once the Borscht is done, Eddie switches off the stove and gives in. He opens his phone, already annoyed at himself for being the first to text, but finds that Richie has sent him a few messages already. He must be on his lunch break at work. 

**Richie**   
how come im always in trouble?  
the turtles are testing me today

 **Richie  
** wuu2 gorgeous? xxx

 **Eddie  
** What have you done now?  
I just got home. x

 **Richie**   
your mom back yet? 

**Eddie**   
Not yet. Later today sometime. Bleh.

 **Richie  
** soooo ur home alone??

 **Eddie  
** Yes?

 **Richie  
** hot. if u felt like taking nudes rn tht  
would be cool w me jsyk

 **Eddie  
** Oh yeah? And what would I do with  
these nudes?

 **Richie  
** now theres a question. if only u   
had recently obtained a sexy bf whos  
crazy abt you 

**Richie  
** i bet he’d appreciate any nudes u had  
spare

 **Eddie  
** You’re insufferable. You saw me naked  
last night.

 **Richie  
** oh trust me, that memory is getting me  
through the crappiness of this day

 **Eddie  
** Why is the day so crappy?

 **Richie  
** bcos i wanna be with u

 **Richie  
** duh xx

Eddie lowers his phone, eyes closing for a moment to process this. He forces himself to wait a minute or so before replying, so he doesn’t say something to encourage this sort of schmaltsy nonsense. His smile stretches so wide that it hurts his cheeks. 

**Eddie  
** Loser xxx

 **Richie  
** god stop suffocating me with affection

 **Richie**  
i gtg now angel. lmk if u change ur mind  
abt those pics ;) xxx

Sighing happily, Eddie pockets his phone and wanders upstairs, dreamily trailing his fingertips along the bannister as he heads upstairs. 

*

It’s Tuesday, which is a perfectly acceptable day to abandon one’s chores and ride stealthily to the town’s amusement park without telling anyone. This is the mantra that Eddie repeats to himself, at least, as his feet push the pedals. He’d swung by the pharmacy at his mother’s request to pick up what she needed, so the bag now swings from his wrist, occasionally bumping his knee when he turns a corner. The task that he’d been given has been accomplished, so now he has nothing waiting at home for him but a mother still thawing out from her time caring for sickly kids, and an empty afternoon of boredom. 

So, he reasons, he might as well find something to entertain himself for a while. Bev is busy with one of her boyfriends, and Stan is out on a solo birdwatching hike, so Eddie doesn’t have a lot of options except… Turtle Cove. Perhaps he’ll go on some rides, or get another churro. The lies are easy to come up with, but they would fool absolutely nobody were he to speak them aloud. He hasn’t told Richie he’s coming, which coats the whole expedition with a mist of excitement. He purposefully doesn’t picture Richie’s reaction to seeing him, because he’s pretty sure he’d crash his bike in distraction if he did. 

The line into the park is annoyingly long, but Eddie waits dutifully nonetheless, listening to the two over-excited children in front of him chanting rhymes as they slap their hands together in complicated patterns. In his early school years, he remembers some of his classmates doing this, but always refused to join in in case they hadn’t washed their hands. He thinks of all the things he’s let his hands do with Richie, and how little he’d cared about the sanitation, then blushes. Once inside, finally, Eddie heads for Turtle Tots Town, but pretends that he’s not in any hurry to get there, lingering at gift stalls and hovering around snack carts like he might actually buy something. He toys with going on a ride, but decides against it in case it makes him feel sick; he wants to be on top form for Richie, as pathetic as that may sound. 

Eventually, he is beside the archway, and has no excuse to avoid going in. He checks his phone for the time. It’s 3pm, which is a reasonable hour to have just stopped by for a second, unbothered, like he was debating whether to come at all. Eddie rolls his eyes at himself as he walks to the trampolines, sure that his own anxiety-brain will have him institutionalised one day. Surely nobody else thinks about things this much. Richie certainly doesn’t. It’s only as Eddie gets close enough to see the figure strapping children into their bungees through the chain link fence, that he realises it’s not Richie. His stomach lurches, and he stops in his tracks, entirely confused. He must have been bumped again. Fuck. Now how is Eddie supposed to find him?

Before he can catch up with his own impulse, he’s stepping forwards and calling to the girl in the turtle cap, the one that has replaced Richie in this vital role as trampoline supervisor. She jogs over, smiling a Customer Service Smile; as she gets closer, Eddie realises with a modicum of discomfort that it’s the girl Richie had brought to lunch with him that day he rode The Neibolt. The girl he’d subsequently ignored in favour of flirting with Eddie for the whole half hour. A flicker of uncertain recognition passes over her face, but Eddie’s pretty sure she doesn’t remember how she knows him. They’d never actually spoken, after all.

“Hi!” she says brightly. “Did you want to bounce?” 

“Oh, God no.” She raises her eyebrows, and Eddie quickly adds, “sorry, I just. Not for me. Um, I actually wanted to ask you whether you know what happened to the guy working this job before you? Richie Tozier?” 

Her face visibly hardens at the name, and she straightens up, her Customer Service Persona vanishing. “He’s over in The World of Tomorrow working a food stall. He told some kid they’d be fired up onto the moon unless the harness was on tight, and they peed their pants. Parents were furious. So he’s paying for it.”

“Ah,” Eddie says, struggling to hide a snigger, “um, that’s- that’s terrible.”

“Don’t know what you want with that waste of space, honestly,” the girl says, studying her nails. “The jokes are cute at first, but he’s a dick.”

“Great, well. Thanks for letting me know where he is,” Eddie says, though his skin bubbles with anger. She shrugs, turning to go, when Eddie decides that actually no, he’s no longer okay with letting things like that slide. Eddie is _with_ this ‘dick’ now. That means defending him when he gets slandered, because there’s no doubt in his mind that Richie would go apeshit at anyone who said anything bad about Eddie. “Hey, wait,” he calls after the girl, who turns back, surprised. “Um. That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.” His cheeks flame, of course, but he presses on. “He can be kind of rude sometimes, but he would never intentionally hurt anyone. He’s not a dick at all. And you shouldn’t talk shit about people just because you feel slighted.” 

Her mouth hangs open as he walks away, briskly, immersing himself back into the crowds of families with loud, shrieking kids so he won’t have to hear any angry rebuttals called after him. He walks fast, heart pounding a drum solo worthy of a Metallica concert, and overcome with a pride that has his chin raised high, a gleam in his eyes. Is this what it feels like to have something to care about? Is this what righteousness feels like? If so, it's better than any drug Eddie has tried, not that there has been much experimentation in that department. 

His feet step lightly on the tarmac on the way to The World of Tomorrow. It’s a fair way away, back near the entrance, but Eddie doesn’t care. He’s excited to see Richie now, to hear his many bad Voices and the way they shape endearments about him. He’s excited to feel those gangly, too-long arms wrap around him in the hug he’ll surely receive. He’s excited to watch his brown eyes light up when he catches sight of Eddie for the first time. He’s even excited to see that stupid turtle cap he wears the wrong way round on his mop of curls. 

It takes a little while to find the food stall where Richie is stationed, as there are at least five in this land. Eventually, Eddie finds him working in a booth selling ‘Turtle Moon Munchies’, whatever they might be. On top of his turtle cap is a headband sprouting two springy antennae. He’s so tall that they keep brushing the top of the window he leans out of to hand over snacks to people, and has to repeatedly grab them before they slip off. Eddie stands back for a minute or so, watching him from afar. The queue for the Turtle Moon Munchies stall is about five people long, so he stealthily joins the back and has some time to gather himself before facing Richie. 

It occurs to him as he waits - hidden from view behind a tall dad with his two pre-teen sons - that this is perhaps not the ideal scenario for a romantic surprise visit. There are people queuing behind Eddie now, meaning that whatever interaction they have will have to be fairly quick. Plus there’s the wall of the stall in between them, so it’s unlikely they’ll even be able to touch, let alone hug like Eddie had wanted. It’s just dawning on him that maybe it would be better to wait and surprise Richie at the end of his shift, when the dad beeps his credit card on the contactless machine, instantly paying for the blue ice creams his sons are now merrily slurping on. They drift away, and Richie swivels on the spot towards him, having placed the card machine back in its holster.

“Aaaand what can I do for you on this turtle-tastic day in the glorious World of Tomor-”

He stops mid-sentence, eyes bulging. 

“Err. Hi,” Eddie says lamely, with a little wave to match. “Surprise.” 

Richie leans over the counter on his forearms, grinning at him. “Gawsh, and what’d I do to deserve a visit from the cutest customer in the whole park?”

“It’s the antennae,” Eddie says, deadpan. “They’re a glowing beacon.”

Richie flicks one, and it makes a ‘boing’ sound. “Sexy, right?” 

“You look like a beetle.”

“Which one? Paul or John?” 

Eddie snorts. “Ringo.”

“I can work with that,” Richie says, winking. He leans further out of the window. “Hey, so as much as I’d love to scamper off and flirt with you till the sun goes down, you wanna order something? Cool if you don’t, but if you keep the hungry Space Turtle enthusiasts waiting we may be mobbed.” 

Eddie flushes, flicking a brief look over his shoulder at the impatient line of people behind him. “Oh, right. Um.” 

“S’cool, I’d totally protect you with my muscles and whatnot. But still. Might be best avoided if possible.”

“Shut up, moron. Give me a… I don’t know. Candy. ” 

He feels in his pocket for a clump of change, a little embarrassed that he’ll have to pay with coins because his allowance is virtually non-existent these days, what with all the disobedience of late. 

“A candy, coming right up.” 

Richie reaches into a low shelf and produces a pack of Twizzlers. He pushes them towards Eddie with a knowing smile. Eddie can’t help but smile back, warmth blooming in his chest at the knowledge that Richie remembered his secret favourite. 

“What do I owe you?” he asks reluctantly, because once this transaction is over, he’ll have to leave. 

“Hmmmmm,” Richie says theatrically, tapping himself on the chin with one finger. “I think that’ll be… one smooch.” 

Eddie fights an urge to sink his pinkening face into his hands. “Richie, be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious, hot stuff.” He laces his fingers beneath his chin, face stuck out far enough that Eddie could probably just about reach his own to meet it if he stood on his tiptoes. 

Richie’s eyes close, and his lips pucker. Eddie groans quietly, bidding farewell to the dregs of his dignity. He leans forwards, craning up to mash their lips together. He means to back away as soon as it’s done, but Richie - the bastard - grabs hold of him by the shirt, holding him in place. He prolongs the kiss for a good ten seconds, smiling cheekily against Eddie’s mouth, then finally releases him. Eddie stumbles as he sinks back to the floor, heart pounding, utterly flushed. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. For show. 

“You’re so embarrassing,” he complains, snatching the Twizzlers off the counter. 

“Lucky I’m cute,” he quips. “You gonna stick around till the park closes?” 

“I dunno,” Eddie says, wondering how he could possibly fill two whole hours in this hellhole. 

“Excuse me, are you going to spend much longer making out with your boyfriend?” a woman behind Eddie calls, making him blush again. 

“Now that you mention it, ma’am,” Richie calls back, smiling wide, “he _is_ awful cute. You don’t mind, right?” 

A chorus of indignant shouts begins, and Eddie shoots to the side to avoid being shoved by the rousing mob. Richie, utterly unfazed, waggles his fingers at him with a shrug. 

“Maybe see you later?” he calls, blind to the angry jeers aimed at him. 

“I’ll go see Bill for a while,” Eddie shouts, fearing slightly for Richie’s wellbeing. “Are you gonna be okay?” 

“What, these guys? No problem,” he says, then turns to the queue. “Right! Who wants a free ice cream to make up for my unprofessionalism?” 

*

Surprisingly, Eddie’s two hours fly by; the first he spends with Bill in El Mexicana, on a fold out chair in the awning of his gift stall munching Twizzlers and chatting about nothing in particular. It’s always easy to shoot the breeze with Bill, which is something Eddie forgets, because he’s so often trapped in the amber of Bev’s exhilarating aura, so can be difficult to lure away into conversation. Today however, Bev is away with her other paramour, which Bill is completely fine about, apparently, because she’s half-promised him that she’ll come along on his big travelling trip in a couple of weeks. 

“Ben not invited?” Eddie asks, snapping off a piece of Twizzler with his teeth. 

“Sure he is!” Bill says brightly. “It’d be fun if it were all three of us, no doubt. But I don’t think he’s got the time to spare. He’s been building his architectural portfolio all summer.”

“Asia has buildings too,” Eddie points out. “He could get some inspiration.” 

“I thought you were sceptical of our three-way thing?” Bill says, laughing. “Why are you pushing for us all to go?”

“No reason,” Eddie mumbles, eyes skidding away towards the Bucking Turtle ride. 

“You want some alone time in Derry without the watchful eyes of your best pals, maybe?” 

“What? No,” Eddie says defensively. “I just think you guys all work well together.”

“We do,” Bill agrees, smiling beneath his stuck-on ‘stache. “They’re both awesome.” 

The next hour Eddie spends with Mike, who has been promoted from Neibolt ghoul to Neibolt supervisor, making it easier to chat to him. He wanders through the ride’s queue area, the other side of the barriers, checking everything is going smoothly. When Eddie approaches, he hollers in delight, and lets him walk beside him. 

“Oughtta get you a turtle cap, you’re here so often,” Mike says, ruffling Eddie’s hair. It’s a gesture that might once have irked him, but Mike is so affable and good-natured that Eddie finds it hard to mind. “Bev drag you here again?” 

“Err… no, actually.” Eddie scratches the back of his neck, hoping for a distraction. They’re in the mirror hall, where the clowns will soon appear to scare everyone. He waits, unmoved, while the lights flicker and the clown faces prompt everyone into running screaming into the next room, then turns to Mike again, feeling sheepish. “I was just bored. Thought I’d mooch around here for a while.”

“Fair enough,” Mike says, perfectly happy to let it drop in the exact way Bev would not. “Hey, help me move this animatronic snapping turtle back, would you? Someone must've knocked it over as they were fleeing.”

*

At the end of the day, Mike strolls with Eddie back to El Mexicana, eager to catch Bill before he goes. Eddie hadn’t been aware that Mike was good friends with Bill, but apparently they hold each other in high esteem. Together, the three of them hover beside Bill’s stall, chatting as he pulls the shutters down, locks the doors, and peels off his offensive garb. It’s such a pleasant, lighthearted atmosphere that Eddie doesn’t notice the approach of his asshole boyfriend until he’s being grabbed around the middle from behind and lifted into the air. Richie whirls him around, making his shriek; several youngsters on their way to the exit point and laugh at him. 

“Put me down!” Eddie shouts, and Richie does, but with the easy slowness of a man that is entirely unbothered by his boyfriend’s terror. Eddie shoves him in the shoulder once his feet are back on the floor, flustered and embarrassed because Mike and Bill are watching, wearing matching amused smirks. 

“Sorry sweetness,” Richie coos, looping his arms around Eddie’s neck from behind, pulling him gently into his chest. “You get me all excited. It’s the fanny pack, y'know. Does things to me.” 

Eddie elbows him lightly, but it’s quite nice to settle back against his warm, solid chest, so he holds Richie’s forearm, his rage tamping down. “I’ll get you back for that.” 

“Oooh, promise?”

“Err, Eddie, are you okay?” Bill asks, chuckling. “Need rescuing?” 

Flushing, Eddie mutely shakes his head. He’d be happy to leave it there, to let Bill’s politeness prevent any probing questions, and Mike’s sunny indifference wash the whole subject away. 

_But._

“Eds and I are boyfriends now!” Richie declares, loud enough for the whole sodding park to hear. Eddie closes his eyes in dismay. “Finally wore him down. It’s my smooching skills, I reckon. He can’t get enough.” 

“Richie, I swear to God,” Eddie mutters.

“Wait… seriously?” Bill asks, looking pointedly at Eddie for confirmation. “Eddie, I can’t help but notice you’re not disputing this claim.” 

Mike lets out a shocked, pleased laugh. “Woah! Nice one guys! Congrats!” 

Eddie just stares up at the sky, letting Richie rock him side to side as he nods enthusiastically, chin brushing Eddie's hair, confirming everything. “We’re going Facebook official later tonight, right sweetums?”

“Like fuck we are,” Eddie scoffs. “I hate Facebook. And so do you.”

Richie presses a smacking kiss to the top of his head. “One of the many things that drew us to one another.” 

“When exactly did this happen?” Bill asks, eyes bright with curiosity. “And does Bev know?” 

“Is there anything she doesn’t know?” Eddie answers, just as Richie says, “we made out at Bev’s party, under the soft patio lights, and that was the beginning of a torrid, heart wrenching love story.”

“This is wild,” Mike supplies, cackling, “I never thought you’d get anywhere, Rich. I mean, a few of us suspected you fooled around a little here after hours the other night, but Eddie here’s a fuckin’ catch.” He jabs a finger at Eddie. “You’re way too good for him, bud. Remember that.”

“Hey, Mikey, let’s not remind my recent _cherie_ of all my flaws right away, hm?” Richie is, if Eddie’s not mistaken, slowly but surely edging them backwards in tiny, almost unnoticeable steps. Eddie has to hide a smirk. He’s being gradually stolen away. “So, great to catch up with you guys!” 

“Rich… you literally just got here,” Bill says. 

“Nuh uh. We had a whole conversation, Billiam. You told me your deepest secrets and your aspirations for the future. We both cried. You don’t remember? Wow, maybe lay off the weed, huh?” At this point, Richie is having to raise his voice to a deafening level for Bill to hear, because he and Eddie have inched a good few metres away. “See you guys bright ‘n’ early! Eds says bye too!” 

“That was so rude,” Eddie says once they’re hand in hand, walking down the main path leading to the park entrance. “I should not be encouraging you to be a dick to our friends.”

Richie swings their hands between them, so vibrant with happiness that Eddie knows he doesn’t stand a chance of getting his message through. “You came to surprise me,” Richie sings, grinning. “Even though you hate this place.”

“Yeah, well, if you worked somewhere else maybe the surprises would be more frequent,” Eddie says. 

“C’mon, admit it. The turtle cap turns you on.”

“Actually, the antennae are kinda doing it for me." He pauses, waiting for Richie's chuckle to die away before speaking again. "I hear you were bumped from Turtle Tots for misbehaving on the trampolines.” 

“Oh. Yeah…” Richie says vaguely. They approach the entrance to the park and Richie slips his envelope of the day’s takings into the slot. “I’m an unstoppable rebel, you see. Hope you like bad boys.” 

He moves off with a wink, headed for the turnstile, but Eddie stops in his tracks, halting him by the join of their hands. Richie swivels towards him, smile wavering. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, “what happened?” 

He hesitates for a moment, tracking Eddie’s expression. “I just… I grow bored really easily, y’know? I can’t stand doing the same job over and over. So I shake things up every once in a while. Keep things interesting.” 

Eddie nods, frowning. “So, will you get bored of me?” 

Richie’s face morphs into an expression of alarm. He lunges forward, wrapping Eddie in his arms. “Fuck. Not what I meant, angel. I already told you this. Unfortunately for your sanity, there's no hope of me growing bored of you.” 

Into Richie’s chest, Eddie mumbles, “I guess we’ll see.”


	18. Chapter 18

They go to Richie’s car, shoving Eddie’s bike into the back along with the pharmacy bag he’s been carrying all afternoon. Richie holds open his door, the way he always does, while Eddie climbs into the passenger seat. Eddie gets a pleased tingle from it, though he rolls his eyes the whole while. 

“Where are we going?” Eddie asks when Richie starts the car, hot with anticipation. 

Richie’s arm drapes over the back of Eddie’s seat, casual and lazy. The heat of it seems to seep through the fabric into Eddie’s back. He shoots Eddie a smirk. “Nowhere special in mind. Thought I’d take you for a drive.”

“I don’t wanna go home,” Eddie states firmly. “Anywhere else.” 

Richie nods in total understanding. “Sure.”

“ _Anywhere_.”

Richie laughs, reversing out of the space. “Gotcha.”

He drives them about five miles out of Derry, which isn’t saying much, because Turtle Cove is on the very edge of town, and beyond it is a whole lot of nothing but dips and valleys, spotted with the occasional flock of sheep. Richie turns off by a creek, driving the ramshackle car over a dirt track so old and bumpy that Eddie hangs onto the handle above his door, making Richie howl with laughter. He slows about half a mile down the track, beside a big oak tree that cloaks welcome shade over the car. A bird chirps high up its branches - an unusual call. Eddie thinks he should remember it, so he can imitate it for Stan and find out what it is. But then, mid-sentence, Richie is unbuckling both of their belts in one flick, and diving across the handbrake to kiss him. Squeaking in surprise, Eddie falls back against the door, laughing at Richie’s eagerness. 

“Sorry,” Richie says, hand cradling the spot on Eddie’s head where he’d thunked against the half-open window. “Too excited. I’ll smoke some weed, it’ll calm me down.” 

“It’s okay,” Eddie laughs, letting the pad of his thumb ghost over Richie’s full lips. “I like you being excited to kiss me.” 

Richie ducks his head, bashfully, but digs into the glove compartment anyway to find his stash. Eddie doesn’t mind; it will help Richie feel more in control of himself, and anyway he secretly likes the smell of it, the way it catches in the curls of Richie’s hair, and the fibres of his dumb uniform. As Richie smokes, he talks, of course, so Eddie mostly listens. Occasionally he makes a dry, sarcastic comment that has Richie gazing at him softly, like he’s the perfect passenger. And that’s pretty nice. Eddie even has a couple of tokes on the joint, both their doors flung wide, the easing afternoon heat just the same outside the car as in. The smoke disappears into the open field, dancing across the water that trickles in the stream nearby. Or, at least, that’s what Eddie imagines. 

At some point, when the sun is dipping very low, and the weed is all smoked, Eddie gets out of the car. Richie barely seems to notice, half-lidded and dopily happy as he is, legs propped up on the dashboard either side of the wheel. Eddie opens the back door and climbs in, which makes Richie glance over his shoulder, puzzled. His sentence, whatever nonsense it had been, dies away without either of them mourning it. 

“Whatcha doin?” 

“Waiting for you.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s a hilarious scramble, Richie squeezing himself into the back between the gap in the front seats, because he doesn’t seem to have the patience to get out and use the door. They both shove the front seats forward as far as they’ll go, snickering about how stupid this is, and how they could just as easily get out and roll around in the grass given that they’re in the middle of nowhere. But then Richie has Eddie beneath him, stretched out across the backseat as much as possible, and it's suddenly not stupid at all, it's the cleverest thing they've ever come up with.

The seatbelt plugs dig into Eddie’s lower back, but he ignores it in favour of getting Richie’s shirt off, which is no easy task. “Why can’t you have a car with a retractable roof thingy?” Eddie demands to know. “You’re too big.” 

In response, Richie reaches for the door handles of both the back doors and pushes them open, giving them marginally more room to wriggle around. It takes a great deal of shimmying and shoving and elbowing each other in the ribs, but eventually they are both in just their underwear, giggling like toddlers, and kissing each other all over like the adults they very much are. 

“When was the last time I told you how gorgeous you are?” Richie enquires, half out of the car altogether, mouth dangerously close to Eddie’s dick. 

“Um.” Eddie tries to focus. “Earlier today sometime?”

“That long?” 

“I trust that you think I’m attractive, it’s okay. You don’t have to constantly assure me.” 

Richie drags his tongue along the front of Eddie’s underwear, making his hips twitch. “It’s more like my running commentary, honestly. You can tune me out if you wanna.”

“No, that’s okay,” Eddie says, gasping when Richie licks over him again. “I like your voice. I like it when you say that stuff.”

“Mmm,” Richie muses, fingertips inching into the waistband of his underwear. He’s fully out of the car now, knelt on the ground, dragging Eddie towards him by the backs of his knees, until his legs fold out of the doorway. Eddie can feel the blades of grass tickling the soles of his feet. Richie slips the underwear off him entirely. “Listen close then, baby. I’ve got lots to say today.” 

He closes his mouth around Eddie’s cock before Eddie has a chance to respond. He whimpers, splayed out on his back on the seat, consumed by the rich, dizzying pleasure of Richie’s slick mouth moving over him. 

“You’ve got such a good mouth,” he sighs, happily. The weed still thrums through his veins, blurring and swirling the pleasure into something new. Something different. “It does talking, and blowjobs, and kissing.”

Richie pulls off with a pop. “Don’t forget the jokes.”

“No, I think I will forget the jokes.” 

Richie barks a laugh, smacking him lightly in the thigh. Eddie pouts, sitting up a little. “Don’t stop.”

Teasingly, Richie nips at the inside of his thigh, not obeying. “Wanna see what else my mouth can do?” 

Intriguing. Eddie tilts his head. “Is it a Voice thing?” 

“No,” Richie answers. His tone has dropped an octave. He sends up a wicked smile. “Lie back. I wanna try something.” 

“Err,” Eddie says, but finds himself lying down anyway. 

“Trust me?” Richie asks. 

“God help me. Yeah I do.” 

Richie slips his hands around to the back of Eddie’s thighs, then pushes them up, folding him in half. The position leaves Eddie uncomfortably exposed, and he thinks about protesting, but then one of Richie’s hands slides down his cheek, the thumb grazing gently over his hole. He feels himself quiver.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a really long time,” Richie confesses, voice weak. 

“Do what-” Eddie’s breath catches. “Oh.”

Richie has leant forwards and pressed a kiss upon him. In a spot where Eddie might once have died before letting him even see. He swallows hard, because the flutter of Richie’s lips in this sensitive place is far from unpleasant. Richie draws back, hesitating. 

“Okay?” he asks.

Eddie nods, worry lancing through him. “You… you really want to?” 

“God, yes.” 

“Okay,” Eddie whispers, and shuts his eyes. 

Richie makes a happy little ‘hmm’ noise, then burrows right back in. His angular nose pokes at the stretch of smooth skin just beneath his balls. He kisses a second time, wetter, more open-mouthed, and then his tongue protrudes just a smidge. It’s a lightning bolt, instantly, jolting Eddie head to toe. 

“Oh,” he gasps, one hand gripping the edge of the seat. 

The utterance spurs Richie on. He has ahold of Eddie by his hips, his grip tight as he flicks that pointed tongue against his hole. Gentle and butterfly soft. Eddie feels his thighs begin to tremble, his head begin to swim. Richie makes a grunting noise of contentment, then doubles his efforts, his licks stronger, faster. 

Eddie whines, back arching. “Oh my God, fuck. Richie what the fuck.”

Richie’s tumble of breathy laughter against the wet patch he’s created is heavenly. “You taste so fucking good.” 

Eddie’s eyes roll back, and another embarrassing whine slips out. He wants to shove his hips down into the sensation, but is too nervous of Richie’s disgust, which must surely be coming any moment now. Eddie is perhaps the cleanest teenager he knows, but this is another level of unhygienic. It’s baffling that Richie not only seems not to care, but is actually enjoying this. He keeps at it, winding Eddie's coil of pleasure tighter and tighter, then poking the tip of his tongue past his rim, which has Eddie swearing so loud he claps a hand over his own mouth. Richie digs his tongue deeper, groaning with his own pleasure, until Eddie has to beg him for relief. 

“Rich, Rich, please-”

“What, baby?” Richie asks, pulling back to look up at him, lips shiny, pupils swallowing his irises. “What do you need?”

Eddie’s head is swimming as he stares back, utterly debauched, propped up on shaking elbows. What does he need? To come, of course. But how? He shakes his head, hoping Richie will get the message that he cannot possibly make decisions right now. But Richie only smiles, wickedly, sinfully, and trails a fingertip over the place he’s been focusing on. 

“You want this, angel?” He presses his finger about a quarter of the way inside him. Eddie gasps, expecting a sting, but he’s so slick from the attention of Richie’s mouth that the finger slips straight in. Eddie’s sure he could get it in further, maybe even add a second, but Richie’s being cautious with him. Still, he wiggles the finger, and Eddie moans. “Want me to use my mouth elsewhere while I finger you?” 

Eddie nods, more than happy to agree to whatever Richie has in mind, as long as it will get him where he needs to go. “Please,” he says again, because he knows by now that the key to getting Richie to do what he wants is to play on his weakness for being begged. 

Richie swallows thickly, nodding, then slips his finger further in, right up to the hilt. Eddie tips his head back in a sigh; he’d forgotten how good it felt to be filled like this, even if it is just one finger. Richie shuffles his position, leaning in so he can take Eddie’s flushed cock into his mouth again while he presses his finger in hard. He goes slow at first, getting used to the rhythm of bobbing his head and working his finger, but then he finds a groove, and Eddie’s eyes sting with tears of overstimulation. 

“Fuck, Richie, oh my God,” he cries, biting his own hand. 

Richie goes steady for a minute or so, then adds a second finger, and Eddie knows he’s on the edge. He can feel the fingers curl inside of him as they thrust deep, searching for his prostate, but honestly - Eddie is not bothered if they find it. He’s so close now, thanks to a generous build up provided by who he is now considering might possibly be the best boyfriend in the entire world, along with a whole day and night of yearning for this. 

And then, like the magician he is, Richie’s fingers brush over that place deep inside of him, just briefly, only skimming it, and Eddie comes immediately, unable to cope. He can feel the force of it, knows it must be a lot, and wishes, somewhere in the back of his brain that he’d had the coherence of mind to warn Richie, but he’s too busy nearly blacking out with how fucking amazing his orgasm is to care. 

When he flops back on the seat, spent and dizzy, Richie lets him slip out of his mouth, then drops a kiss to his thigh. “You all good up there?” 

“No,” Eddie groans, one arm flung over his face. Cigarette burns, black with a fringe of flame gold, swallow up areas of his vision when he peels open his eyes. “Jesus, I think I’m blind.” 

“Blinded by a blowjob,” Richie muses, trailing kisses over his hip, up to his stomach. He rests his chin there, on the soft expanse, and smiles up at Eddie. “I must be getting better.”

“That was amazing,” Eddie tells him, because despite how embarrassing it is to admit it, Richie deserves to know. “You’re amazing. Come here so I can do things to you.” 

Richie laughs to distract Eddie from the dusting of pink on his cheeks. He crawls back into the car, Eddie shimmying up to give him room. “I want to do that to you too,” Eddie says, scrambling to get at him through the underwear blocking his way. “I want to finger you. Is that something you’d-”

“Oh, fuck, really?” Richie asks, blush deepening. “I didn’t think you’d be into that. Y’know, ‘cause of your gross-out hair trigger.”

“Different rules apply with you,” Eddie says dismissively, long ago having come to terms with this truth. “For instance…” 

He grabs Richie by the back of the neck and pulls him down into a bruising kiss. It’s a bizarre taste, honestly, tangy and sharp, nothing like Eddie would have imagined, but it’s definitely there, above Richie’s usual flavour. When he releases Richie, he looks dazed with surprise, but nods, understanding. 

“I see.” He clears his throat, still adorably pink. “Well, uh. Eds, you have free rein with this bod. Do whatever you want, I’m yours.” 

“Mine,” Eddie agrees, hands sloping over his chest, and Richie goes promptly from pink to tomato. 

It takes a hell of a lot of shuffling around, and a small break to bicker about the best way to arrange themselves, but eventually they get into a suitable position. Richie straddles Eddie’s lap, naked, his head brushing the roof of the car because he’s so stupidly big. Eddie can’t get his hands around enough of him; there’s so much skin, so much muscle and a very grabbable ass. Richie lets his hands roam as they make out a little, settling back into things; Eddie tests out the angle by swiping a finger down the crease of Richie’s cheeks, making him gasp into Eddie’s mouth. 

“I have lube,” Eddie confesses, trying to keep his voice casual. 

Richie raises an eyebrow. “UV ray protecting lip vaseline?” 

“N-no,” Eddie says, averting his eye. “Real lube. I picked it up at the pharmacy.” 

“Oh, _really_ ,” Richie says, grinning in sheer delight. 

Eddie swats him in the shoulder. “I was in there anyway, asshole. I just thought it might be useful!” 

“Did you come surprise me at work carrying a bottle of lube, Eddie?” 

“I really hate you.” 

“Yeah?” Richie leans down to purr into his ear. “S’that what I heard you say when I was eating you out a minute ago?” 

Eddie says nothing, worried that if he tries to speak, all that will escape will be a whimper. Richie chuckles at his silence, then moves back to kiss him, slow and dirty, all tongues and the occasional clamp of teeth. 

“C’mon then, Eds,” he murmurs, rolling his hips, “show me your purchase.” 

Eddie has to shove Richie off him for a moment to lean over the seat and fish out the pharmacy bag from the boot. It’s caught on his bike’s tyre spokes, making him swear in frustration trying to wrestle it free. Richie laughs at him, so Eddie swings the bag at him and catches him in the side. 

“Okay, climb back on.” He pulls out the bottle while Richie re-seats himself, quieter now because he’s probably a mess of nerves and excitement, judging by the state of his rock hard, leaking cock. Eddie closes a fist around it while he reads the instructions on the back of the bottle, fisting him loosely. Richie still curses like it’s the best handjob he’s ever received, which is distracting, as is the way he bites his lip as if to keep from doing it again, so Eddie abandons his reading and gets straight to work. “Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” Eddie instructs. 

Richie can apparently only muster a nod, eyes fixed to Eddie’s face. 

Eddie gets the lube coated on his fingers, then moves them into place as Richie rises up to his knees. He crooks his neck to one side to avoid the ceiling, but surprisingly it’s not the least bit funny right now; Eddie imagines they will laugh about it later. The divot between Richie’s cheeks is not hard to find, but Richie still drapes a hand over his, guiding him to the right spot. 

“It won’t hurt you, right?” Eddie asks, hesitant. 

“No,” Richie breathes, the hand on Eddie’s shoulder that he’s using to steady himself tightening its grip, “no, go on.”

Eddie nods, taking a deep breath in, then pushes his finger in, past the pucker of a rim. It’s warm - warmer than he expected, though in hindsight it makes sense. The human body’s internal temperature is 37 degrees, after all. He plunges the finger in deeper, and Richie keens, a wild sound escaping from the back of his throat. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” he groans. “That feels really good.”

“Y-yeah?” Eddie asks. He’s thinking about pulling the finger back, but Richie moves before he can, lifting his hips higher, then back down again, to slide himself over it. “Oh. Oh, you’re- okay.”

“Can you add another one?” Richie asks, his eyebrows knitting together in focus as he circulates his hips. “Please. Please, baby-”

A scorch of heat burns through Eddie at the sound of the entreating tone Richie begs him with. He nods emphatically, shushing Richie with a messy kiss, then scrambles to add a second finger to join the first. He had not anticipated how madly, indescribably hot he’d find this, to have Richie on top of him, so hard he must be desperate, thrusting himself onto Eddie’s fingers and so obviously loving every second. The sight makes him want things he hadn’t thought he wanted, to feel Richie’s tight, hot burrow clamped around his dick, to thrust himself into Richie and watch how he shakes and moans with the pleasure. Richie is watching him carefully now, as though he can read Eddie’s thoughts. He continues to move, easing himself down onto two fingers now, unhurried but purposeful, using Eddie’s shoulder to keep the rhythm. 

“Like watching me ride you, Eds?” he pants.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, mouth filling with saliva. He reaches his other hand down between them, to grasp hold of Richie’s dick. “Yeah, you look really good on top of me.”

“It feels awesome,” Richie sighs, eyelids fluttering. “Wanna ride you for real some day. Get you inside of me properly.”

“Yeah?” Eddie swallows, jerking him in time with his hips. “I- I want that too.”

“Your dick would feel so good,” Richie groans, speeding up a little. “Fuck, yes, Eddie…” 

Without prompting, Eddie decides it’s time to add a third finger. Richie moans when he does it, hips stilling to adjust. He wriggles experimentally, speared on three fingers, head bowed forwards while he gets used to the feeling. Eddie moves for him, millimetre thrusts, just enough to coax small, soft noises from him. He keeps moving his hand over Richie’s cock. 

Eddie’s own erection has well and truly stirred back into life, but he has been ignoring it in favour of getting Richie as worked up as possible. Now however, Richie begins moving again, lip caught between his teeth, fingernails digging grooves into Eddie’s shoulder as he nods down to the space between them and says, “want me to…?”

And Eddie, unable to speak he’s so turned on, nods. Richie gently bats Eddie away from his dick, then closes his enormous hand around both of them. The sight alone has Eddie groaning. They continue like this for a while, just losing themselves in the build of pleasure, occasionally wandering their mouths over one another’s throat, lips, collarbone.

“Rich,” Eddie says after a while, sensing that the end is in sight, “I wanna find your… y’know.” He crooks his fingers to demonstrate what he means. “With my fingers. Can you help me?”

Mouth hot and open against Eddie’s jaw, Richie nods, then shifts back, eyes closed in concentration. Eddie gazes up at him, at his strong jawline, his glass-cut cheekbones, his spidery eyelashes. 

“You’re so pretty,” Eddie accidentally blurts, and is met with Richie’s serene, amused smile. “Is it not working?" he asks worriedly, pushing his fingers as deep as they'll go, making Richie hiss. "Am I doing it wrong?”

Richie uses Eddie’s shoulder to re-seat himself, carefully, and then winces. “No, baby, you're not doing it wrong. You're- _fuck_. You're doing it so right." He circles his hips, breathing out long and slow. "It’s just- _ah_. I’ve only found it once.” 

“Only once?” 

“By accident,” Richie says, breathily, then moans as he sinks his hips down. His hand, still clasped around both of their dicks, has stilled for a moment while he concentrates. “It’s okay, you don’t have to reach it. I just like how it feels,” he says, rolling his hips with a sigh, “having you so deep inside.”

“Fuck,” Eddie says bluntly. His dick twitched at that, and Richie undoubtedly felt it. “What if I…”

Experimenting one last time, Eddie crooks his fingers, copying how he remembers Richie doing it to him, just as he slides them all the way back home, and Richie _yelps_. He stills, shaking slightly, and meets Eddie with wide eyes. 

“Fuck. Found it,” he says, chuckling. “God damn. I forgot what that felt like.” 

Eddie wastes no time. He grabs Richie by the waist and begins thrusting his fingers in, aiming for that one particular spot. The smile slips straight off Richie’s face, replaced by a spun out expression that has his brow creasing, his mouth parting. Eddie goes fast, faster than Richie has been doing it so far, and Richie just clutches him tight for a moment, speechless with sensation, then begins jerking his fist around them to match pace.

It’s so good, so damn deliciously good, that neither of them have the ability to hold on longer than a few seconds. Eddie buries his face in Richie’s chest, listening to the sound of his own name fall from Richie’s lips as he comes all over both of them - warm wetness coating Eddie’s abdomen and Richie’s thighs. His own orgasm is just as potent, and once again the cigarette burn spots appear, though less alarming the second time around. Richie falls to one side of him when it’s over, letting Eddie’s fingers slide out. He wipes them on the seat, pretty sure Richie won’t care.

“Well, damn,” Richie wheezes, half sprawled along the back seat, head lolling out of the open door. He settles his legs over Eddie’s lap. “Were you a boy scout, by any chance?”

“What?” Eddie asks, bemused.

“You’re just, like, extra good at scouting things out.”

Eddie stares at him, not sure whether to smack him or release the laugh bubbling up in his chest. In the end, his lack of residual post-orgasm stamina lets the latter win out. He laughs freely, Richie joining in, until his stomach aches. 

“You’re so not funny,” Eddie says after a while, wiping his cheeks of tears. 

“I can see that.” Richie struggles to sit up, grimacing slightly when he catches sight of the dried come streaking his thighs. “Ugh. We’re really gross, huh?”

“Speak for yourself.” 

Richie tracks a gaze over his bare torso, appreciatively. “Hmm. You may be right.”

He swings his legs off Eddie and kisses him back against the headrest, letting their tongues twine, their hands stroke soothingly over arms and chests and necks. Eddie sighs into his mouth, a growing feeling of familiar dread starting to bubble up in his gut. 

“What’s wrong?” Richie asks, noticing the change in him at once. 

“I have to go home,” he says regretfully. “My mom’s already gonna have my balls for being this late.” 

Richie’s lower lip sticks out in a dramatic pout. “But what about my post-coitus cuddles?” 

“I’ll have to owe you them,” Eddie says, snorting. “Sap.”

Richie smiles softly at him, draped lazily against Eddie’s side. He traces a fingertip over the curve of Eddie’s cheek. “Okay, sweetness.”

“Are you okay to drive?”

“Am I too blissed out, you mean?”

Eddie laughs. “I meant are you too stoned.”

“Oh!” Richie chuckles at himself. “Nah, all the endorphins knocked the weed outta my system.” 

“Not sure that’s how it works.”

“Is too! Orgasms counteract drugs, everyone knows that.” 

“Shut up, moron. Kiss me a little bit more. I wanna forget that this is all about to be over.”

*

They see Bev on the drive back to Eddie’s house, hand in hand with Bill and Ben, the three of them strolling along the sidewalk in an obnoxiously wide threesome that forces anyone coming by to walk in the road to pass them. Richie honks his horn three times to get their attention, so Eddie shrinks in his seat, already mortified. He’s clothed again, obviously, but he’s sure that the misdeeds he’s just engaged in are written all over him, possibly in the form of vibrant hickeys. 

Bev just waves merrily at them, which forces Ben to wave too, as their hands are joined. Bill smiles at them knowingly. Richie slows the car down beside them, and they stroll up to Eddie’s open window to peer their shining, happy faces inside. 

“What up, lovebirds?” Bev asks. “You picking your man up from work, Eddie?” 

“Does it count as picking someone up if they’re the one driving?” Ben asks, to nobody in particular. 

“Actually, Eddie was a v-visitor at my stall today,” Bill chimes in, grinning cheekily. “C-came all the way to TC for a g-g-glimpse of that Mexican turtle merch, right bud?” 

Eddie sends him a glare of betrayal, and Richie laughs, arm wrapping around his shoulders. 

“Is that right?” Bev exclaims, that glint in her eye that means she’s sensed a tidbit of gossip. “And here I was foolishly thinking you couldn’t _stand_ Turtle Cove, Edward. How mistaken I must be, if you go there all on your own just to hang out!”

“Hey, hey now,” Richie says, and Eddie turns to him hopefully. He’s fixing Bev with a stern look. “Lay off my new bae, I won’t have you humiliating him in my presence.” Eddie’s heart swells, hopeful and fond. “I mean it’s bad enough he came all the way to TC to booty call me-”

Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth. It wasn’t gentle. Richie squawks behind it, trying to speak still. Eddie turns to the others, glowering. “In other news, I hate you all and you’re dead to me.” He slides his gaze to Ben, who looks affronted. “Except you, Ben. We’re cool.”

When Richie begins licking Eddie’s palm, he snatches back his hand, making a disgusted noise he is aware makes no sense given all that they just did together.

“Well," Richie declares, "it’s been a fun, fleeting moment of back and forth with Vicky Christina Barcelona, but we gotta adios. Eds here has a curfew.”

“Say hi to your mom for me,” Bev says, throwing Eddie an apologetic look. “Feel free to tell her I coerced you into staying out late, smoking and drinking and flirting with boys.”

“Might just do that,” Eddie mutters. “You’d deserve her wrath.”

“Love you too, kiddo.” She leans through the window and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Hmm. Might wanna shower the pot smell off when you get in.”

“Shit.” Eddie aims an accusatory glare at Richie, who just titters. “Bye, guys. I’ll either see you soon or you’ll see me on the news as the first kid burned to ash by his fire-breathing mother.”

“Bye, Eddie,” Bill says, pityingly. 

Ben waves sadly. “Good luck.” 

Richie drives them away, and Eddie slumps into his seat, morose. A hand snakes its way into his lap, finding his; their fingers lace together. “Don’t be sad, angel. You’re too pretty for that, remember?”

“I’m not actually that sad,” Eddie assures him, turning to observe his profile. The angles of his beautiful face. The dimple in his left cheek when he throws Eddie that fond, happy smile. He realises that he’s not lying. The sadness, that had not long ago seemed to engulf him, has retreated like the tide. Leaving acres of sandy beach, dotted with the footprints of his friends, of which he has more of than he thought. Bev and Stan and Bill. Ben and Mike. And Richie. Of course, Richie. His footprints are everywhere, scattered, danced into the soft plains with his excitable tread. Eddie smiles, imagining the way he might pirouette over Eddie’s mind, chasing away any hint of sadness, if he had the chance. He squeezes Richie’s hand very tight. “Not anymore.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Follow me on tumblr if you wanna gazebosandglasses.tumblr.com xx


End file.
